Battlestar Group 41
by Mercury Actual
Summary: Enroute to intercept a Cylon fleet in the Ionian Nebula, Apollo diverts to intercept a bogey. It turns out to be a medium sized Colonial battlestar, which transmits the cryptic message MISSION ACCOMPLISHED... please read and review
1. Chapter 1

_**Battlestar Group 41**_

_**Ionian Nebula, Viper 3**_

"_Galactica, _Apollo. I'm in Viper 3. I have a bogey at my ten, I'm gonna go check it out."

Apollo rolled his Viper mk.VII over and pulled out straight, heading for the contact. It was big, whatever it was, or was that just the radiation thrown out by the nebula?

He had cause for concern when several more contacts appeared around the original contact, heading for the Fleet. They would pass him in several seconds.

Apollo peered through the perspex canopy, trying to find the ships in the clouds. He wasn't having too much luck. The luminous clouds were very good at concealing things.

He checked his DRADIS again. In a matter of seconds he would be in the cross-hairs of over twenty Raiders, or over twenty unidentified fighters, he couldn't decide.

He didn't have to. They were...

Vipers?

"_Galactica, _Apollo. Contacts are inbound Vipers. Mk.VIIs."

They couldn't be from _Galactica_ or _Pegasus._ That was certain. But then where were these Vipers from?

One of them caught his attention. In this swarm of advanced state-of-the-art fighters, one mk.II was tagging along.

_**Battlestar Galactica, CIC**_

"Confirmed. Colonial transponders detected." said Gaeta. "They're heading to intercept the Cylon squadron."

"Anything from the larger contact?" Tigh said quickly. He was still trying to act normal after discovering his true nature, but he knew he could easily try too hard.

"There's a wire- Colonial transponders! I'm getting Colonial transponders." Gaeta burst out. He still remembered the time _Pegasus_ had shown up, but could a fluke like that be repeated? What were the chances of another battlestar showing up?

"What was that?" Adama asked. "The first part?"

"Uh, sorry, sir," said Gaeta. "We're receiving a wireless communication,"

"Put it through," said Adama. "On speaker."

"Aye, sir." said Gaeta, already manipulating his station. Lieutenant Hoshi, at Comm, forwarded the signal to the speaker.

"_...contacting the Battlestar Agrippa. Ramius, come in. Battlestar Agrippa, come in. Mission accomplished, repeat, mission accomplished."_

"They must think we're the _Agrippa._" said Tigh. "But who are they?"

"The battlestar _Agrippa_ was the flagship of Battlestar Group 41." said Adama, pensively. "Hoshi, send hostile challenge."

"This is the battlestar _Galactica_ to unidentified vessel. Please identify or you will be fired upon. Reply."

There was amazed chatter on the other end of the line, then: "_This is the battlestar _Valkyrie. _Adama, is that you?"_

"Patch me in," said Adama. "_Valkyrie, _ this is _Galactica_ Actual. I assume I'm speaking to Commander Nelson."

"_Admiral? You got promoted? Congratulations, sir. I'm sure Admiral Greer will be happy to see you too. They should be on the other side of the nebula."_

"Vipers have engaged, sir." reported Gaeta. "The _Valkyrie_ is moving into attack formation."

"Nelson, we're coming in to assist. Are you sure about the _Agrippa?_"

"This is where we left them two months ago."

Two months? That was well after the Cylon attack. What the frak were they doing out here?

The _Galactica_ rotated to bring her dorsal turrets to bear on the lead basestar. The Vipers and Raiders from both ships continued to dogfight in between the capital ships, ducking through clouds of flak and missiles. The _Valkyrie_ then launched two nuclear torpedoes, tearing through the nearest basestar.

"DRADIS contact!" Gaeta shouted. "Multiple contacts! Coming up through the cloud!"

"Let me guess," said Tigh. "Colonial?"

"Affirmative." said Gaeta. "I'm reading five Viper squadrons on DRADIS. Approaching from the other side of the nebula."

"A whole frakkin' battlegroup!" Tigh said. "This is a stroke of luck like you read about!"

_**Ionian Nebula, Viper 3**_

"_Galactica,_ Apollo, Raiders are bugging out, repeat, Raiders are bugging out. Basestars are getting ready to jump."

He squeezed off another shot at a retreating Raider, and witnessed an amazing sight.

_"Galactica,_ Apollo! There's a whole frakkin' battlegroup out here!" Sure enough, a battlegroup came charging out of a cloud bank, and Apollo saw the magnificent shape of a _Mercury-_class battlestar come straight at him. The hull was pristine and undamaged, and all the bowchasers were firing into the last of the retreating basestars.

There were four other ships in this group as well. A sleek _Griffyn_-class destroyer alongside a boxy _Adriatic_-class strikestar and two _Nonsuch_-class frigates. He couldn't make out the names on the ships, but he knew he would be finding out soon.

"_Apollo, come in Apollo._" came a familiar voice on the wireless.

"Seelix, is that you?" Apollo asked.

"_Ouch. Lee, I'm hurt. Should I bait you or just save you the trouble?"_

"Who..." said Apollo as he saw a mk.II viper pull alongside him, and inside...

"Kara?"

"_What were you expecting, the Spanish Inquisition?"_

Apollo shook his head. "What?"

"_Never mind. Let's just go back to _Galactica. _I'm going to show us to Earth."_

_**Battlestar Agrippa, BSG-41-A**_

"_Galactica_ Raptor, coming aboard!" announced the XO, Franklin Bateson. "All hands, atten... Shun!"

The deck resounded with the shifting position, the footfalls so close together they sounded like one.

The hatch to the Raptor opened, and Adama unfolded himself from his seat.

"To the front... Salute!"

Adama returned the salute as the ship's band started playing 'General Salute', with all the honours granted to an arriving flag officer.

Adama stepped down from the wing of the craft, and stepped up to his counterpart.

"Admiral Adama, welcome aboard the battlestar _Agrippa._" said Joseph Greer.

"Good to see you again, Joe." said Adama. As a Rear Admiral he was on equal terms with Rear Admiral Greer. That also put them on a first name basis.

It was then that all ceremony broke down. "Come on, Bill. Let's get out of here. Bateson! Dismiss the hands." Greer then led Adama up the gangway to the second level of the hangar deck.

"Bill, I didn't expect you this far out," said Greer. We're way beyond the Red Line. We've come further than any ship has before. The last thing we were expecting was an encounter with another battlestar."

"What _are_ you doing out here?" Adama asked.

"This way," Greer motioned. "I'm afraid our mission is classified. We were sent out here by Fleet Admiral Corman after you returned from the recon op.

"You knew about that?"

"Of course I did." Greer slid his keycard through the slot and opened the doors to his quarters. "Sit down." he said, motioning to the leather couches in the centre of the room. Why do you think you were reassigned?"

"Because I botched the mission."

"Wrong!" Greer exclaimed. "Corman re-tasked 41 come out here, and he wanted the best. You were famous, but coming to the end of your career. I told him your skill and experience would be crucial, but he decided you were too old. Besides, he thought you would appreciate being given command of the first ship you ever served on. He didn't think you would regard it as a reprimand, of sorts."

"So this was his idea of thanking me?"

"He thought so. They couldn't promote you, they had an excess of Admirals." Greer stood up and walked to his desk. "Coffee, tea?"

"Just water, thanks."

"Nelson completed his mission, thankfully. Now I can't tell you what that mission is at the moment and why it required us to come all the way out here to the boonies to complete it, but we're heading back to civilization now."

Adama stopped breathing. _Oh Gods. He didn't know!_

"Joe, there's something I have to tell you."

"Sure, Bill, anything." He handed Adama a glass emblazoned with the _Agrippa's_ mission patch and sat down in a leather armchair.

"You're really not going to like it..."

"Try me." Greer said, making it even harder for Adama to say it.

"There's nothing to go back to, Joe," said Adama quietly. "The Cylons wiped out the Colonies, nuked them flat. Apart from your battlegroup, my ship is all that's left of the Colonial military. And my fleet's all that's left of the Colonies. We are the highest ranking Colonial officers in existence."

"What the hell..." Greer whispered after a moment of silence. "How could we have been beaten so easily?"

"They used a new navigation program to hack our networks and shut down our ships. Your entire battlegroup-"

"Had her networks disconnected when we left Caprica," said Greer. "Corman didn't want to take any chances. Now I'm glad that was so."

"Joe, what were you doing out here? What mission? _What did the _Valkyrie_ do_?"

"We completed the mission, Bill. We found the Cylon homeworld."

* * *

_I hope this appears interesting. It's just an idea that I had. I don't know where it's going, or even if I'll get around to continuing it. It all depends. Please review for suggestions or comments.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Battlestar Galactica, Port Hangar Deck**_

Apollo drummed his fingers impatiently on the control column while he waited for the elevator to cycle. The red lights of the shaft reflected off his helmet, basking the cockpit panel in an intermittent muted red glow. The avioncs had been shut down along with the engines, and not a single light on the dashboard glowed.

He knew that somewhere Kara Thrace was going through the same process, as if she'd never exploded in a ball of fire.

And what the hell was the Spanish Inquisition? And how did she know where Earth was, just like that? There were too many questions and not enough answers. Apollo was sure that when Admiral Adama found out he'd have a heart attack. Apollo chuckled a little at the thought of that, or how Thrace would be chewed out for playing with the Old Man's nerves like that. It would be just like Starbuck to play a practical joke.

And sadly that theory was the best he could come up with.

The tug latched on to his nose gear and started forward, withdrawing the Viper from the lift shaft. The airlock doors parted to allow the fighter through, then closed to lower the next one.

The cockpit seals burst and the pressure equalized. Apollo opened the seal on his helmet and took it off as he leapt from his craft, the same one he'd flown since arriving on the ship years ago.

And sure enough, there she was. The ground crew erupted in applause as she hopped down from the ladder, her helmet under her arm.

"Back from the dead and babbling incoherent nonsense..." Apollo shook his head. "Some things never change, do they?"

Starbuck punched his arm. "Incoherent nonsense?"

"Spanish inquisition? Showing us to Earth? Or what about blowing up in a spectacular fireball?"

"Don't get jealous just because I've been to Earth and you haven't! Besides, they had some good TV shows..."

"How the frak is that possible?"

The conversation was interrupted by a shout from the other end of the deck. "Adama! Over here!" It was Karl Agathon, appointed CAG after Apollo resigned.

"You weren't authorized to fly that plane!" Agathon barked. He was silenced when he saw Starbuck. "Kara?"

"It's gonna be okay." said Starbuck. "I've been to Earth. And I'm gonna take us there."

Agathon joined the crowd in a dumbfounded silence.

_**Battlestar Agrippa, Commanding Officer's Quarters**_

"The Cylon homeworld?" Adama exclaimed. "How the frak did you pull that off?"

Greer sighed. "I almost wish you hadn't asked. As you can probably tell, we lost a few ships doing it. The Cylons first caught us deep in their territory about a month ago. It took us that long to sneak around the rear of their territory. We lost two of our ships there, the _Agamemnon _and the _Lydia._ The _Hannibal_ was critically wounded, and we abandoned her. We're down to what you see here." He took another sip of his coffee. "We hid in the Ionian Nebula and sent the _Adriatic_ out alone. We figured she's a fast strike ship, powerful enough to hold her own and fast enough to avoid trouble. That last gambit worked. The Cylon territory is huge."

Greer was interrupted by the door rolling apart. An officer walked in with a dispatch under his arm. He handed it to Greer. "Casualty and damage report, sir."

Greer opened it, waving the ensign away. "Not bad. We took 'em completely by surprise. _Valkyrie's_ good, as is _Agrippa._ But... The _Spifire's_ CIC was hit, and we lost the entire bridge crew."

Adama blanched. "_Spitfire?_ Wasn't that McCafferty's ship?"

Greer put the dispatch on the table. "Not any more. MIA. Probably KIA." He slammed the table with his hand. "Shit! Now I need a new commander!"

"What about Johannson?"

"He was replaced by Colonel Alex Greane." said Greer. "You missed a few catastrophes while you were away."

"Do you..."

"I don't have anyone else, at least no one with the experience McCafferty did!" Greer took another sip, and placed his cup down. "Everyone in this battlegroup is the best at what they do. No more, no less." He sighed. "You know, it's really strange how we work."

Adama didn't know what to say. "What do you mean?"

"Death. How we react to it. Billions of people in the Colonies, and sure it's a hammer blow thinking about your family and friends, but you're strangely calm and accepting. And then you see this..." He motioned to the dispatch. "We understand death on a small scale. But anything large and it's just too big to get your head around."

"Ain't that the truth," said Adama. "But sometimes you gotta roll the hard six, and live with it."

"That's just it, Bill. I'm sick of living with it. Ever since that first battle I think of the ships I've lost, and the men I should have saved. I try to imagine what happened to them, what I've condemned them to. An eternity of nothingness? What are they going through right now?"

"You learn to live with it. Death just becomes another chance to live. We've been given a chance. We are alive when many aren't. So let's use this opportunity and survive."

"I hope you're not hoping to attack the Homeworld, are you?"

Adama shook his head. "No. I'm in favour of giving them a good sock every once in a while, but I'm not suicidal."

"What was that song we heard on the _Valkyrie?_" Greer asked. "The Piconese one?"

"The laughing Cylon and his dog?" Adama asked. Greer burst out in laughter.

"No, no. The other one."

_"_The Minstrel Boy?" Adama tried.

Greer snapped his fingers. "That one!"

"_The minstrel boy to the war is gone,"_ Adama started. "_In the ranks of death you will find him,"_

"_His father's sword he hath girded on. And his wild harp slung behind him"_

_"Land of Song!" cried the warrior bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy right shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"_

"That brings back some memories," said Adama quietly, after a moment of silence.

"Yep. You never could sing," said Greer. "Where do we go from here?"

"We lick our wounds and recover. After that, we find Earth."

Greer shook his head. "I'll have to take your word on that. But I can't think of anywhere better to go, so I'll follow you."

"You still need a commander?" Adama asked. "I think I have just the man for you."

"Really?" said Greer. "Any command experience?"

"He was in command of the _Pegasus_ for over a year."

Greer almost dropped his drink. "_Pegasus?_ She survived? Where did she go?"

"She was destroyed in orbit of a planet we called New Caprica. Her crew is now onboard _Galactica._ I can transfer some of them over to _Agrippa_ if you want. I'm some of them would kill to return to a _Mercury_-class warship."

"I'll think about it. What about Helena?"

"Admiral Cain?"

Greer nodded. "Yeah. I met her a while back. Bit harsh, but once you get to her good side she's a good person."

"She didn't make it." Adama sighed. "She was shot by a Cylon."

"One of the humanoids, right? We ran into a few of those. Scared the pants off 'em, too. They weren't expecting us." Greer scratched his forehead. "Anyway, even if _Pegasus_ isn't around we can handle anything substantial that gets in our way. How did she survive?"

"Her computers were offline for an upgrade. She made a blind jump into space when the Cylons hit Scorpion."

"We'd already completed that upgrade." said Greer. "_Agrippa_ was next in line after _Mercury,_ thanks to some maneuvering by Corman." Greer lenaed closer. "So who's the guy you have in mind?"

"_Admiral, there's a call on the line for Admiral Adama. It's from the Galactica XO."_

"I'll get it," said Adama. He got to his feet and crossed the room to the phone. "Adama. Go."

"_Admiral, we've found our next clue to Earth. And sir... It's Starbuck."_

_**Battlestar Galactica, Port Flight Pod**_

"Kara!" Adama called as the hatch to the Raptor opened. Thrace stepped nimbly around it and embraced Adama.

"It's going to be alright!" said Thrace. "I've been to Earth!"

"And you know where it is?" Adama said.

"Of course. I've come back to show us there."

Adama hugged her again. "We thought you were dead."

"I still don't know what happened, but I found myself in my Viper, completely disabled, floating in orbit of a blue-green planet. It looked like Kobol, apart from-"

"Kara," Adama said. "Can't we talk about this somewhere else?"

"Oh, yeah, right." Thrace jumped off the wing of the Raptor. She turned to see another man get up from his seat on the Raptor. He was athletic, but early middle-aged. "Who's that?"

"That is Admiral Joseph Greer, of the battlestar _Agrippa._"

"He's in charge of the battlegroup we found?"

"Yeah," said Adama. "Let's go, the sooner we get to Earth the better."

"It's great there," Kara said. "There are humans everywhere. They have cities like on Caprica, at least the country I was in did."

"Which country were you in?"

"Canada. I crashed in what they call Nunavut. Everything after that... It's a long story."

"I'm sure," said Adama.

They made their way to the wardroom, where President Laura Roslin waited with Vice-President Thomas Zarek. Roslin stood and introduced herself to Greer. "Welcome Admiral. It's so good to have you here with us."

"I wish it were under better circumstances, but thank you anyway."

"Starbuck, if you would," said Adama.

"I crashed on the northern part of a secondary continent. It looks sort of like this..." she sketched a drawing on a napkin, showing the two continents, and where she crashed. "As you can see the world is much more like Picon and Caprica, having a varied climate and large bodies of water. I can see why they picked this planet. Anyway, unlike our planets theirs is divided up into 'countries', most of which get along but some of whom... don't.

"I landed in what they call Canada, and was picked up along with my ship. They seem to consider it advanced, but not that far ahead. The guy I talked to was confident they could have their own Vipers in a few years. I told them to wait until they'd seen the mk.VII." Starbuck laughed, but stopped when she saw the result of her joke. She quickly continued.

"I met with their leader, Prime Minister Caldwell, and an ambassador for the United States. I learned that the leader of the U.S. (that's their contraction for it) is President Gerard. They call him a 'Democrat', whatever that means, but that's the state of North America. They didn't talk to much about the country called Mexico, but then again I never asked.

"It is on North America that I believe we should colonize. The continet of Europe is very populous, and several hundred thousand people would wreak havoc on the economy. We should aim for the United States, Australia, and Canada. These countries have the best capacity for supporting our population."

The room was silent for a second. Then Zarek spoke. "One question. Where is it?"

"What?"

"Earth. Where is it?"

Starbuck looked around. "Uhh... I ran these through the nav computer. I took several star fixes while in orbit, and plugged them in. Here are the jump coordinates. Four jumps."

"Then that's it," said Adama. "Earth is finally within our grasp. Kara, give these coordinates to lieutenant Gaeta, and have him jump immediately."

"Aye, sir." said Starbuck, leaving the room at a run.

"Madam President," said Adama. "Our quest is at an end."

"Thank the gods," said Roslin, short of breath.

"What's wrong?" Greer asked.

Roslin looked a bit pale, then said "The sacred scrolls say that the leader will not live to see the promised land. I think something terrible is going to happen between here and there."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," said Adama. "Joe, let's go find your commander."

"Lead the way," said Greer as they left the wardroom, leaving behind a shaken commander-in-chief.

_**Battlestar Galactica, Port Flight Pod**_

"Lee!" Tyrol shouted. "The Admiral wants you."

"Now what?" Apollo muttered to himself. He was officially a civilian, but was helping do odd jobs around the hangar deck like he used to do as CAG. He was probably catching hell for taking his personal Viper out in a combat situation. Helo had in fact thanked him for assisting, but Adama might have other ideas.

"Yes, Admiral?" he said as Adama and another man walked up.

"Lee, this is Admiral Greer of the battlestar _Agrippa._ At his request I've decided to give you a chance to redeem yourself. You may rejoin the Fleet, on one condition."

"What's that?" Apollo asked, intrigued.

"You are required to take command of the strikestar _Spitfire_ with the rank of Commander. I suggest you accept."

"But my resignation..." Apollo protested.

"I said I wouldn't have you serving under me. But Admiral Greer isn't me. And you're needed."

Apollo didn't need to think twice. "I'll do it."

Adama tossed him something. He caught it in his hands, and examined it. It was a pair of wings, but not his old ones. These were outstretched, marking seniority.

"Congratulations Commander Adama." said Greer. "Time to put your pins back on. Our shuttle departs in twenty minutes."

"I'm just going to get my things," said Apollo. He climbed the gantry two rungs at a time.

"One more thing, Bill," said Greer. "I just thought, since this is your old battlefleet, that I'd do something in return for the help you've given me."

"What's that?" Adama asked.

"The _Valkyrie,_ Bill. She's yours, if you want her again."

* * *

I'd just like to thank everyone for all the comments and encouragement. I'm sorry it took so long, but it's summative time at school. I've got work coming out of my ears. I've got something next week, so hang tight. Any suggestions on where the story should go would be appreciated. 


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_**Battlestar Galactica, CO's quarters**_

"You're _leaving?_" Tigh exclaimed. "Now of all times?"

"Because of now. Greer offered me the _Valkyrie,_ Saul." Adama said. "He's giving me my old ship back! My first command, you were there, you know..."

"Bill, who's getting the _Galactica?_ And for the love of Artemis, don't give it to me!"

"Got any better ideas?" Adama asked as he stuffed another shirt in his duffel bag. "I'll pop back and forth, the _Valkyrie's_ with us now. We're part of a battlegroup again." Adama slapped Tigh on the shoulder. "There isn't any crisis like the last time you took the reins. Just a few jumps until we reach Earth, and we can stand down to condition three for the first time since New Caprica."

"Is it really that easy? Didn't the scriptures say something about trouble before reaching Earth, or have I gone mad again?"

"What could happen?" Adama asked rhetorically. "C'mon. Cheer up. The ship's yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm moving out." He left the cabin, but paused in the threshold. "And though this is your cabin know, that isn't an excuse to trash my stuff or redecorate. When I want my upholstry I'll send for it." Both men laughed a bit at that, before the slightly sombre mood crept in again. Adama closed the hatch.

Tigh exhaled. He'd played that one well. Only despite his attempts he was still the...

_Stop it!_

"After all their efforts..." he mumbled. After all the attempts to destroy or cripple the _Galactica,_ a Cylon was put in command legitimately. Would some hidden protocols jump into play and screw up his life more than it already had been? Not yet, anyway. He'd play it by ear for now.

He left the cabin, and slowly walked fore. He wished he could join Adama on the _Valkyrie._ He could be XO there, instead of CO here. Only over there Adama wouldn't be the commander of the ship. Nelson would be. He would command the battlegroup like an Admiral should: giving orders to the fleet and letting the commander run his own ship. Was that why Adama had been uneasy about his decision to jump ship?

Speaking of commanding his own ship, Tigh faced his first task as CO of the _Galactica._

Signing off on a maintenance report.

Maybe Bill was right. No sweat. Yet.

_**Tau Ceti II, USS Activity**_

"We made it!" Colonel Matt Naslund exclaimed. Looking out through the observation dome (which had been specially treated to eliminate reflections), the globe of Tau Ceti II stretched out below the starship.

"I don't feel so good," Captain John Emmerson moaned. "I'm going to the head."

Naslund didn't know whether the sickness was from vertigo or the aftereffects of suspended animation. He pegged it down to the cold sleep, considering a Marine pilot wasn't likely to be afraid of heights.

The _Activity_ was the third starship constructed by the United States Air and Space Force. The first was the infamous _Enterprise. _No points for guessing the origin of the name. The second starship was the _Challenger,_ named for the shuttle that exploded in the 80s.

The _Activity_ was the first starship to leave the Solar System, traveling light years across the void of space to what scientists had discovered to be an inhabitable planet using the new Rasmussen Array, a telescope that made Hubble look like a pair of binoculars. The _Activity_ contained the basic materials and crew required to build a small colony. Behind them was the NASA transport starship _Shackleton,_ with a colonial population to settle what the crew of the _Activity_ constructed. The Russians and Chinese were now sitting up and taking notice, though more for the gesture of leaving the Solar System than what _Activity_ was actually doing here. That was kept well under wraps. They'd probably send out their own ships soon, but the crew of the _Activity_ wouldn't hear about it for ten years. The speed of light was a significant barrier here. For the crews of the _Activity_ and the _Shackleton_ the passage of time would go unnoticed, thanks to the cryogenic freezing.

Emmerson reentered the Bridge, and stared down at Tau Ceti II. "So what're we calling it, sir?"

"For now let's call it... I don't know..." Naslund had to think. "Damn. I'm blank here."

"They gave us a list, you know," Emmerson said.

"Give me some of it," Naslund suggested.

"I can assume there were some Trekkies in the committee," said Emmerson, bringing up the list on a computer display. "We've got Vulcan and Bajor."

Naslund laughed at that. "Let me guess. Same guy who christened the SS-1 _Enterprise?_"

"Yep. We've also got Australasia and New Montana. Laurasia, Gondwana, boy those are older than the pyramids!"

"I like Bajor. I don't know what the fictional one is, but I like the name," said Naslund. "How are we coming with the crew?"

"Doc's revived a good quarter of them. There have been no fatalities, and all the pods are functioning perfectly. I think we ironed out all the bugs last time around."

Fortunately, the 'last time around' had been a hop around the Solar System, and they'd been in good range of a space station. No fatalities. But they'd been lucky.

"Get the shuttlecraft ready," ordered Naslund. "I want a closer look at this planet."

The planet was similar to Earth in the late Permian or early Triassic eras. There were small seas surrounded by land instead of of continents and oceans. This resulted in an arid climate, and it would require special consideration. Tau Ceti was not as bright as Sol, and threw out much less UV radiation, so copious amounts of sunscreen were not necessary.

"How long until the _Shackleton_ gets here?" Emmerson asked.

"At this rate... Another month," said Naslund. "We have to get to work... We don't have much time."

They didn't. And colonization wasn't the reason they were here.

_**Strikestar Spitfire, Hangar Deck**_

_"I won't serve under a commander who questions my integrity!"_

_"And I won't have an officer under my command who doesn't have any."_

Apollo couldn't figure out what had led to Adama's change of heart. He'd been let go. It was the most unofficial resignation he'd ever heard of, but it had worked. Now here he was in a Raptor approaching the blocky strikestar _Spitfire, _with him ready to take command The landing system was the normal autolanding developed for the _Adriatic_-class, and had the Raptor on the hangar deck in five minutes. Apollo had no option but to be impressed.

"Welcome aboard, Commander,"

Apollo didn't know who this was, but he assumed it was his XO, a stocky woman named Major Cheryl Subharov.

"It's good to be here, Major." said Apollo. "Can you show me to my quarters?"

"I'd assumed the commander would have read up on the ship before taking command," Subharov said coldly. "Follow me, sir."

"How long have you been XO here?" Apollo asked.

"You should have researched that as well, sir," said Subharov. "But if you must know, I've been here for four years."

"_Four years!?"_ Apollo exclaimed.

"Admiral Greer thought I was better suited as XO, considering I had no experience commanding a ship before. He didn't seem to notice when I informed him that I took command of this ship upon your predecessor's death."

Apollo didn't say anything. He could see how she would feel.

The _Spitfire_ was an _Adriatic_-class strikestar, a smaller complement to a battlestar. It was in effect a flying flight pod. It had standard Viper tubes and the interior was very modern and computerized. Unlike the flight pod of a battlestar only the rear was fully open to space, with only a small aperture in the bow to allow Vipers that had aborted landing attempts to safely exit the pod and try again. Every corner and flat surface was fixed with a turret or CIWS defense system. The engines were arranged around the rear opening to the flight pod, and in total the vessel was the length of a _Mercury-_class flight pod.

He noticed that Subharov was turning right down the wrong corridor. "Major, isn't _that_ the way to CIC?"

"Of course, sir." She clammed up and didn't say anything more, despite all his efforts to get her to talk. She was incensed.

Subharov was wrong. He had been researching. He just wanted to get to know his XO. And he'd found out more than he'd wanted to know.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie, CIC**_

Adama walked through the revolving glass doors into the bright CIC of his old ship. The walls were as clean as he remembered them, the DRADIS consoles spotless and colourful. The operating system was the same clean blue digital display that was used on all newer ships.

"Admiral Adama, welcome home." said Commander Robert Nelson extending a hand. "Welcome home."

"How are you, Robert?" Adama asked, shaking it. "How's the ship?"

"Ready to commence Jump 3. Three minutes to go."

"Copy to _Galactica._" Adama ordered. "Stand by to jump."

"Sir, the flagship of BSG-41 is signaling. Jump in sixty seconds."

The idea was that the more powerful battlegroup would jump ahead and encounter any trouble. The fleet would then jump a few seconds after, and then _Galactica_ and _Valkyrie_ would jump in last. It would all happen within a minute of each other.

"Jumping in..." Nelson reported to Adama. "Three. Two. One. Engage!"

The room contracted as the _Valkyrie_ jumped across the light years, closer to Earth.

"Jump completed. Contact!" shouted Nelson. "Admiral, we have a contact!"

"Transponders?" Adama barked.

"None, sir. Possible Cylon contact." Nelson relayed from his bridge crew. "No response, though. It's too small for a basestar. And it's moving away from us."

"What? Is there any change?" Adama didn't know what to make of it. "Signal the flagship of 41. I'm going to pull up alongside that ship. And launch a few alert fighters to cover us."

"Aye, sir." said Nelson. He turned to his tactical officer. "Launch alert fighters. Cover that ship."

"Hail them." Adama ordered. "And push a reply up on the speakers."

"No reply." Nelson relayed. "I'm assembling a boarding party in the starboard flight pod, ready to launch on your orders."

"How many Raptors?" Adama asked.

"Uh, two from _Valkyrie_. Three from _Spitfire._"

"Make it six. I'm going along." Adama saw Nelson prepare to object, and he raised a hand. "I won't go in until it's secure."

"Very well."

_**Raptor Six**_

It was ten minutes since the ships had jumped in, and the mysterious ship still hadn't responded at all. It just sailed on, oblivious to anything going on around it. There were no weapons that could be seen on it, either.

The ship itself looked less like a Colonial ship and more like a collection of spars and tubes thrown together in the most efficient shape. A designers nightmare but an economists dream. The compartments looked like they were made of tin foil instead of armour plating or sheet metal. It reminded Adama of the early Caprican space stations, right down to the solar panels. Instead of reaction motors like the _Galactica_ the ship seemed to use a less powerful but more long term atomic constant boost system.

"The first Raptors have docked," reported the ECO. "No resistance." he said after listening to his headset.

Adama shifted on his seat as the ECO augmented his last statement: "No signs of life at all, sir. Shall we proceed with docking maneuvers?"

"Go ahead," Adama nodded.

Adama's stomach tried to escape as the Raptor flipped over and attached itself to the docking port of the ship. The hatch in the belly of the craft opened.

There was no gravity in the ship, and Adama had trouble adjusting to this new environment.

"Message from the boarding party, sir. They've found what they believe to be the command centre.

"Lead the way," Adama ordered.

The command centre was sufficiently advanced for Adama not to doubt the technology level of the creators of the ship. The only problem was the lack of crew.

Captain Jonathan Coffey, the Marine detachment commander, floated into the command centre. "No signs of life, sir. Commander Adama of the _Spitfire_ is coming aboard in a few minutes."

"Very well..." Adama said absentmindedly. He'd noticed a small insignia on one of the control panels. He could only make out four letters, and a sentence.

"What is it, Admiral?"

"Nasa. Nasa transport starship _Shackleton._" Adama said. "This isn't a Cylon ship. But I don't know who's it is."

_**Nasa Transport Starship Shackleton**_

Major Eric Schindler tried to stretch, but he couldn't. His legs were still stiff from the years he'd spent in cold sleep. He knew that being the first one of the crew to come out of cold sleep was the hardest, but he didn't seem to be alone... The computer was programmed to awaken him in the event of arrival, or something else. Here it seemed to be the latter.

He could here mumbling from the people floating in front of his chamber, but couldn't make any of it out. His body temperature had returned to normal, and he was breathing normally again. He found this time he could move his legs, and his arms. His fingers still felt like they belonged to someone else.

He could still slap the activation button, and opened his chamber. As the pad slid out, the men hovering outside snapped their rifles to a ready position. They took a closer look at him, and one by one lowered their weapons.

"Who are you?" Schindler asked.

"Corporal Janson," said one of marines in a strange english. The words were understandable, but the pronounciation was off. Not wrong, just... off.

"What country are you affiliated with, and why have you boarded my ship?"

"Just a second, I'll have to contact my superiors." The soldier proceeded to do so.

Schindler took the opportunity to scrutinize the soldiers. There was no doubting what they were, and their rifles were recognizable as such. Sure the designs were different, but Schindler had never seen a Russian rifle that looked exactly like an American one. But these weren't Russians.

Who were they? And how did they get out here? What were they doing here?

"Can you move?" asked Janson.

"We'll soon find out," said Schindler. The zero-G environment was perfectly suited for him in his condition. With one shove he floated up the corridor towards the command deck, away from cold storage.

The command deck contained people for the first time in more than forty years. They were definitely humans, albeit in strange uniforms.

There was only one explanation. The United States, or some other country, had in the years he had been on ice launched a starship capable of traveling faster than the _Shackleton_ could, and people from what to him was the future had overtaken the starship. People always considered the possibility when entering into cold sleep.

The uniforms were certainly not American, or Russian. Hell, he'd never seen any uniforms like them before. No rank insignia that he could recognize, and the mission patches... He'd never heard of a battlestar _Valkyrie_ before.

An older man who seemed to be the CO took notice of him drifting into the command deck. "My name is Admiral William Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie._" he said in a hoarse, commanding voice. Definitely the CO.

Schindler took it all in stride, trying to appear calm. "Major Eric Schindler, Nasa Transport Starship _Shackleton._ Which country are you from?"

"Country?" Adama asked. "Our home _planet_ is Caprica. I suppose this will all seem a little strange to you..."

"Yes," Schindler said, tacking on a "sir" at the end. Back on Earth such honours were always rendered between ranks in services of different countries, but even if it didn't apply here he didn't want to risk offending a superior military force. _Shackleton_ was a primarily civilian ship, and even if it did carry a substantial amount of weaponry in the hold the colonists were as yet untrained in their use.

"We stumbled upon your ship by accident." Adama continued. "We thought we hadn't detected any crew, but clearly we were wrong."

Schindler nodded. "They're all on ice for the trip. I was to be revived first when we arrived, or..." He didn't complete the sentence, he didn't have to. Incursion onto the ship by a boarding party would set it off.

"What is your destination?" Adama asked.

"The colony on Tau Ceti II. The starship _Activity_ reached there ahead of us, to prepare the area for settlement." Schindler became a little uneasy. Could these people launch an attack on the _Activity_ and win? The _Activity_ was loaded for bear, nukes, lasers, the whole package. There wasn't much that could push her around.

"Can we join your ship, and head for Tau Ceti as well?" Adama asked.

Schindler was too stunned to reply. "There is no colony as yet..." he said, before glancing at the chronometer. "Wait a minute. They should've arrived by now at least."

"How far is it?" Adama asked.

"Not far now, only a month away if we continue at full speed."

"What if I told you we could get there in a week, or less." He sounded perfectly certain of it, even despite the absurdity of the statement.

"I wouldn't believe you. You'd have to go faster than light, and no country on Earth can do that!"

Adama only smiled.

_**Battlestar Agrippa, CO's Quarters**_

"Why aren't we heading to Earth?" Greer asked himself, oblivious to the presence of the commander of the _Agrippa,_ Matthew Ramius. "This new course is heading _away_ from Earth, not towards it."

"Adama has sent over an explanation," Ramius said, displaying a courier run from _Valkyrie._ "It's his intention to leave the fleet at Tau Ceti under the protection of BSG-41 while the _Valkyrie_ proceeds to Earth to open settlement negotiations. This should also give the civilians a breath of fresh air."

Greer mused over that, and nodded in understanding. "I should've thought of that. He's thinking things through, but then I suppose he's been after Earth longer than we have."

"There is one problem with Tau Ceti, Admiral." Ramius said.

"Only one?"

According to star charts provided by the Terran, there are two other inhabitable planets within close jumping distance of Tau Ceti. One of them is closer to Earth, which is confusing because they've wasted resources settling Tau Ceti first. And the second problem is significant."

"What now? How could things get more complicated?"

"We're deep in Cylon territory now. The second star system is called Gamma Aquile by the Terrans. When compared with our own star charts, this planet..." Ramius removed a copy of the Terran star chart and held it next to one on Greer's desk. "We've had to do some reorienting to make sure they sync, but-"

Greer knew instantly what this planet was. "Adama doesn't know this, does he?"

"No, sir, he couldn't possibly know."

Gamma Aquile had one inhabitable planet. And it was inhabited.

By the Cylons.

* * *

_ Sorry for the delay. I just had a national shooting competition, and had a lot of catching up to do. I wanted to nudge the story in some sort of direction, I hope it turns out to be interesting. And of course there'll be what happens along the way. But don't get too comfortable._


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie, CO's quarters, Four jumps from Tau Ceti**_

Adama carefully laid his battered model ship onto its old shelf in his quarters. He'd patched it up significantly after tearing it apart with his bare hands in grief.

He set the case down out of sight and picked up a third suitcase of personal belongings. Out came compasses and lamps, old items with wood trimming and copper highlights. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter,"

It was Admiral Greer. "Bill, we have a problem." he said seriously.

"Only one?" Adama was also serious, even though he didn't sound it.

"Bill, this is serious. We were looking over some Terran starcharts brought over from the _Shackleton._ I recognized..." Greer took a chart from his briefcase and laid it on Adama's desk, "...one of the inhabitable star systems near to Tau Ceti, after some rearranging to sync their charts with ours. We believe this system, Epsilon Eridani, to be the system in which lies the Cylon Homeworld. We've been there already. Our navigation computers confirm it."

"Are you sure it's Eridani?" Adama said. "There's a lot of scribbles on this chart."

"We had a few, er, difficulties working with the index." said Greer, somewhat embarrassed. "We neglected to reorient the index with the charts, and came up with a different label each time. We originally thought it was Gamma Aquile, then Wolf 359, even our own Sun. We had to analyze a chart of each system and figure it out without any index. We're sure it's Epsilon Eridani."

"So what do we do about? There are already Terrans here. They could run into a Cylon patrol."

"We're lucky they didn't run into the godsdamned planet itself. It's closer to Earth than Tau Ceti is. I still can't think for the life of me why they're out here in the first place."

Adama stood up to get himself a glass of water. "We'll continue on course, but we should reset all encryption keys and limit transmissions to essential only. No unauthorized radio transmissions."

"That's fine for us, but what about Earth? Imagine all the radio they must-"

"They've survived this long." said Adama. "I don't know how, but they've gone unnoticed."

"Looks like the lack of FTL-capability has saved Earth." said Greer.

"Looks like it," Adama nodded. "Or they could know we're here already. May explain why we haven't seem them for a while."

_**Battlestar Galactica, Three jumps from Tau Ceti**_

Kara Thrace stood and stared at herself, next to Kat. It was nothing short of eerie, standing here and looking at her picture on a wall filled with so many dead. And all she could do was look at it.

_They'd really thought I'd been dead._

_Of course they did. _She hadn't gone on holiday.

She reached out with one hand and grabbed the photograph. How many people had wished that one of their photos might be taken down? Thousands. Tens of thousands. There wasn't anyone in the fleet who hadn't lost somebody.

The shadow of her outstretched arm danced in the candlelight from one of the altars.

The photo was stuck well to the wall. She yanked it off and almost tore it. And underneath it was another photo. And underneath that there was probably another one.

She put the photo in her pocket, and turned to the left. There were so many loose ends to tie up. She wouldn't be able to talk to Apollo for a while, not now that he was on the _Spitfire._

She also needed to find some new quarters.

She reached the quartermaster's office in five minutes after meandering through the corridors of the ship. She wasn't the only one, though. Strangely enough the man wasn't in a Colonial uniform.

"Who are you?" she asked him when he finished.

"Major Eric Schindler, Nasa transport starship _Shackleton._"

"Nasa? You're from Earth?"

Schindler seemed surprised. "You recognize it?"

"I spent a few weeks on Earth after I crashed my Viper there. I was in Canada, but I met with the ambassador to your country."

"I don't remember anything about something like that. Although with the starships you Colonials have you could have gone and done it twice in the time it took me to get halfway to Tau Ceti."

"I don't recall hearing about any starships." Thrace said. "Of course you might have left before then."

"This may sound strange to you, but what was the last Stanley Cup champion? You were in Canada, you might have seen something in the papers."

"Stanley Cup? What's that, baseball?"

"No, hockey."

"Hmm." Thrace thought for a second. "Are the Kingston Maurauders a team? They weren't champions, but there was a game."

Schindler looked completely surprised. "They folded two years before I left. The only lasted a decade. What was the year?"

"I don't remember." Thrace shrugged "I just saw that they won a game."

"Do you know the name of the President of the United States?"

"President Gerard."

"I'm sorry, miss, but President Gerard had completed his second term four months before I launched. And that was at least three decades ago.

_**Strikestar Spitfire, Two jumps from Tau Ceti**_

"Spin up FTL drives one and two," ordered Lee Adama.

"Yes, sir," Subharov snapped. She relayed the orders quickly, and snapped back to attention, unmoving.

"Set jump coordinates and lock them into the main computer."

"Yes, sir," Again, the charm of a snapping turtle. She was keeping a lid on her feelings, but not trying very hard.

"Major Subharov, please keep your head in the game here. Now is not the time for petty bickering."

Subharov visibly resisted the urge to say something more colourful. "I wasn't aware that there was any."

"You've been on my case ever since I came aboard. What is your problem?"

"I thought I made that clear, sir." She stared directly at him. "Frankly, commander, you're in my way."

"I get that. But save it for off-duty." Apollo looked up at the DRADIS screen. "Two minutes to jump."

"Commander, I would like to request a transfer."

_Now of all times? _"There are no other command posts," Apollo said. "You'd be lower than XO there."

"It's not just that. I don't believe in your ability to command this ship."

"And why is that? What have I done wrong so far?" Damn this major was irritating.

"It's not what I've seen, it's your record. Isn't it true that you were removed from service before this post? And how long before you fly _this_ ship into something too?"

"Those were extenuating circumstances." Apollo growled. The loss of _Pegasus_ had been hard on the whole fleet.

"I've submitted my official request to your mailbox." Subharov said.

"I understand your reasoning," said Apollo. "Request denied." He turned to the 3.I.C. "Jump."

_**Battlestar Agrippa, One jump from Tau Ceti**_

"Get me the _Valkyrie._" Greer ordered. "Ship to ship. And get Admiral Adama on the other end."

"Aye, sir." said Commander Ramius. After the channel was opened, Ramius saw the signal from the comm officer. "You're on, Admiral."

"Adama, are you on?" Greer asked.

_"I'm here, Admiral. What's the plan?"_

"Only one ship should jump in." Greer said. "That much is a given. Major Schindler says that the _Activity_ is heavily armed. It would be unwise to jump the whole fleet in."

"_One of the warships should jump in. I think the Valkyrie would be a good choice. Anything larger might be to intimidating."_

"My thoughts exactly. When they've been warned and have stood down, send a Raptor back. Then the fleet will follow you. And Adama... Watch yourself. _Activity's_ got nukes. Make no hostile moves under any circumstances."

"_Understood. Am starting jump calculations. _Valkyrie_ actual out._"

Greer put the phone back in the holder. "Signal all ships to hold position. Spread the battlegroup into an escort formation."

Ever since the first jump, things seemed to have moved at the speed of light. They had been close to Tau Ceti when they found the _Shackleton._ With thirty minutes between each jump, the fleet had travelled the distance in less than two days. And in an hour, they could set foot on solid ground for the first time in years...

_**USS Activity, In Orbit of Tau Ceti II (Bajor)**_

Naslund floated out of the excersise room covered in sweat. One problem with space travel was that even with exercise muscles atrophied and weakened. Every member of the crew had to make sure they spent at least three days on the surface, to strengthen muscles that hadn't been used for forty years. If someone spent too long in space, they would never again be able to visit the surface of a planet. The gravity would kill them outright.

"How are things?" he asked as he entered the command deck, wiping his neck with a towel.

"Noisy." said Emmerson. "We've got at least two shuttlecraft making runs now, and the site has been cordoned off. Nothing should get through without us knowing it."

"That's good. Where are the shuttles now?"

"In orbit. They're about to dock with us. I'm waiting for their signal." Emmerson looked out of the observation dome at the planet. "Looks barren, doesn't it? It's still strangely beautiful."

"Almost perfect conditions for-" Naslund was interrupted by a beeping, but noticed first the dead silence on the radio. "Where are the shuttles?"

Emmerson looked at the radar. "Holy shit! Action stations! All hands to action stations!"

The two shuttles were still there, but so was another contact, as big as the _Activity_ herself. Now the airwaves were full of chatter, mostly "_Where the hell did that come from?" _and _"Taking evasive action!"_

"Where did it come from?" Naslund asked. "I could swear that wasn't there a second ago."

"It wasn't. And the logs confirm it. It's like it just dropped out of the sky!" Emmerson said over the alarm klaxon. "Missiles and lasers are powered up. Computers are tied in. We're ready. Orienting aft battery."

"Where is it?" Naslund said, trying to find the ship in the observation dome. "Do you think it's... Could it really..."

"Extraterrestrials? Must be. Earth doesn't have that kind of technology."

"Not yet, at least." Naslund said. "Maybe they fixed what went wrong in the Experiment."

"Unidentified ship, this is the USS _Activity._ If you can understand this, keep your distance. Please respond."

"You don't seriously expect to get a response, do you? What are the odds that they understand English?" said Naslund.

"_USS Activity, this is the battlestar Valkyrie. Stand down your weapons, we mean you no harm."_

"Well, there you go!" Emmerson said, smug with himself. "Funny accent, but English. Must be from Earth."

"Oh, boy. We'll never hear the end of this." Naslund shook his head. "Well, answer them!"

"Right. Uh, battlestar _Valkyrie, _this is _Activity._ State your intentions."

"_Activity, request permission to enter orbit."_

"Proceed slowly. Take position off our port bow." said Emmerson. "That way if they make a move we waste them." He replayed the voice in his head. "Russians?"

Naslund shook his head. "Wrong accent. And no, they're not Chinese either. And they have no recognition codes, so they can't be Allied. No other country has starships, let alone the capacity to develop FTL."

"We should be able to see it now..." Emmerson said. And he was right. He could see it. "Good God!"

The ship was nothing short of majestic. Two pods flanked a main hull, very neat and clean. It was completely sheathed in sheet metal, with no scaffolding or compartments. It was a polar opposite from the gangly _Activity._ It glided neatly into orbit, the thrusters slowing it down and settling it into a stable orbit ahead of the _Activity_.

_"Activity, this is Valkyrie. Would you like to come on board, or the other way around?"_

"I have _got_ to get over there!" Naslund said.

"Aren't you rushing into things a bit? They popped into orbit and you're ready to go over there, unarmed and alone?"

"Hey, it's me!" grinned Naslund. "And besides, why are you being so protective? You're second in command here."

"Hardy har har." said Emmerson as Naslund ducked below.

_**Tau Ceti II**_

Corporal Patterson took a bite out of his apple. It didn't taste like much, considering it had just been rehydrated after forty years of travel, but it was more for nutritional value, and didn't do much to fill his stomach. He would kill to get fresh fruit, but on this planet they still had to make sure what was here was edible.

The camp that had been set up around the site was slowly growing in size and complexity. An arms store was complete, as were a rudimentary barracks, mess, and shower system drawing from a nearby stream. The water was good old dihydrogen oxide, and once purified tasted just like water back home (he had half expected something more exotic, but water's water).

On the other side of the stream was the site, cordoned off. And at the centre of the site, the reason they'd come.

"Patterson!" shouted a private, Lockwood, as he came out of the barracks tent into the bright sunlight. He shaded his eyes until they adjusted to the bright light, then walked over to join Patterson. "Any movement?"

"Not during the day." Patterson said. "I might've heard something in the night, but I didn't run into anything."

"We found some footprints up the way. They might belong to something that came through before we got here."

"Then again it might be a predator that's indigenous to Tau Ceti." said Patterson.

"Now there's a cheerful thought," said Lockwood dryly.

"Yep." Patterson scratched his head. "When's the mess open? I'm getting hungry."

"Not for another thirty minutes." Time on Tau Ceti was another problem their bodies had had to adjust to. The day had 22 hours instead of 24, so their watches were all custom made.

"Hey, you two! Have you heard?" came a shout from the camp. A man ran out from the command tent, clearly excited about something."

"What's his problem?" Patterson mumbled.

The man, another corporal, came bounding up. "A starship just appeared in orbit ten minutes ago."

"What do you mean, appeared?" Lockwood asked.

"It's got some kind of FTL drive. They just snapped into orbit, like that!" he snapped his fingers to illustrate the point. "The top brass on the ship are going to have a little powow before deciding what to do."

Patterson groaned. "Just what we needed. More problems." He looked back at the anomaly in the middle of the sensor cordon. "Just great."

* * *

I hope the voyage to Tau Ceti didn't move to quickly. Naturally the Colonial Fleet would be eagar to get to Earth as fast as possible, but things can move _too_ fast if I'm not careful. 


	5. Chapter 5

_**CHAPTER 5**_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

The first thing Naslund noticed about the ship was the floor.

It wasn't a particularly interesting floor, more of a plate metal deck, but that it existed was impressive. Artificial gravity was something that could be almost as important as whatever stealth device had enabled the ship to appear out of nowhere. The possibility that the ship had FTL now seemed even more likely. But the gravity was most definitely real. And with ships like these, atrophied muscles could be a thing of the past.

The second thing he noticed was the crew.

They were human, and unless convergent evolution had jumped the shark, had to be from Earth one way or another. The uniform was foreign, or maybe just a new version of a previous one that had evolved... No. They couldn't be _that_ different, even if the ship had left ten years after they had and made up for it with some kind of new atomic motor. That or they left forty years after the relatively primitive _Activity_ and did in fact have FTL capacity.

The third thing Naslund noticed was Major Eric Schindler. Clearly the _Shackleton_ had been intercepted. And the crew of the _Valkyrie_  
had been conscious when it happened.

"How the hell did you get here?" he asked Schindler. As the first thing he said upon leaving the shuttlecraft, it must have sounded bizarre. "Your ship should be over a month behind! How long have you been traveling?"

"Less than a week."

"I know it must have seemed like that with the cold sleep, but how-"

"No cold sleep. I've been awake the whole time."

Naslund's eyes almost popped out of his head. "Goddamn! They _do_ have FTL!"

Naslund suddenly realized the presence of what must of been the commanding officer of the ship. He shut up fast.

"I'm Admiral William Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie._" Adama said. "Welcome aboard."

"Colonel Naslund, USS _Activity._" Naslund just couldn't think of anything else but, "Where are you people_ from_?"

"Far away from here." Adama said. "Would you care to follow me? You didn't bring anyone else with you?"

"The ship has a crew of forty. Hardly an army."

"We have over six hundred. On a larger ship it can exceed two thousand."

"Shit!" Naslund exclaimed. "And you _built_ all this? How much did it cost?"

"Millions of credits. This way?" Adama gestured.

"_Activity_ cut our budget for the next decade. This is beyond possible for us..."

Brightly lit _corridors_ and a layout more like a submarine than a starship. The _Activity_ had tunnels that brachiated all over the ship, as there was no 'up' or 'down', only forwards and backwards. And they were _walking!_

The Admiral's ready room, or quarters or whatever they were had no handholds on the wall, or magnetic clips on the desk to prevent paper from flying away. Gravity was a big deal, as far as he was concerned. And he didn't even want to think about the weapons systems.

"I suppose you're wondering why we're here," Adama said.

"You might say that," Naslund said. "We expected the other powers to try for Eridani first."

"You should be thankful you didn't." Adama said. "Don't ask questions now, just take my word for it. We're not from Earth."

That's it. Logic just hopped out the nearest window.

"You're like astronauts, on some kind of Star Trek." Naslund said. "Where the hell _are_ you from then?"

"Calm down," Schindler said vainly.

"_Calm down?_" Naslund burst out. "Why the hell should I do that? I've just had my technological superiority taken away by astronauts dropping out of the sky, who _aren't from Earth,_ and you want me to calm down. Damn right! What's he going to tell me next?"

"That you're not originally from Earth either?" Adama tried.

"_That's it!_" Naslund cried. "Who are you people _really?_ Are you Russian?"

"We're not Russian. We're Colonial."

"And that's no British accent either!" Naslund stormed.

"Here's the deal," Adama said. "I can't force you to believe me. But believe this: I have a fleet waiting for me to signal back. We're going to use this planet as a staging area while this ship goes ahead to negotiate with Earth for settlement arrangements. Now I'm going to send a message back to them, and from what I've experienced so far I'm ready to do that with or without your permission. So you can return to your ship or you can listen up. Your choice, make it now!"

Naslund shut up fast. _A fleet!_

"Thank you," Adama said. "We're from a star system which has twelve inhabitable planets. Our people settled those planets long ago, but a thirteenth group left and settled your Earth. Our planets have been nothing short of sterilized. There are about 50,000 people waiting to jump into orbit. Do we have your permission?"

Put bluntly like that, Naslund couldn't refuse the offer.

_**USS Activity**_

"That was nothing short of a goddamned ultimatum," Naslund complained, slamming the control console.

"You gotta admit, the ship's nice," Emmerson said, glancing out the observation dome at the _Valkyrie_. "What'd he demand?"

"In a little bit this system's going to be crawling with ships. Big ships, little ships, battleships bigger than that one. And if we don't sit down and shut up, there'll be trouble."

Emmerson shrugged. "Maybe if you'd calmed down they would've asked nicely."

Naslund waved a finger at Emmerson. "They didn't send me here because of my negotiating skills. They sent me out here to get rid of me."

"Worked pretty well, if that's really the reason." Emmerson said. "But we're here now, light-years from home and those monkeys in the Pentagon who sent you here, and possibly on the brink of the first interstellar war."

"I didn't screw up _that_ badly, and they don't seem to want a war. They were quite happy to act all diplomatic until... yeah."

"Perhaps you should just accept that _maybe_ they're telling the truth. Far-fetched, perhaps, but think about it in this context: what do they stand to gain from telling us this? The less they seem to gain the more likely it's the truth."

Naslund stared at him. "That's one philosophy."

"If what you say is true, it better become your philosophy, Mr. Ambassador." Emmerson checked his console. "Space lanes are still clear. And if that," the radar beeped, "is what I think it is, here they come."

They were right about crawling with ships. The orbit was filled with them, from shuttles to battlecruisers that could make even the commander of the _Activity_ pause. And they were all as smooth and streamlined as _Valkyrie_ was.

But most impressively was the manner of their appearance. There was no doubt they had FTL capacity. In a flash of light they appeared from nowhere, in under a second. Nothing the Terrans had could match them.

"If we're not careful, our new allies might roll over on us and not notice," Emmerson said softly, awed by the sudden appearance of such a fleet.

"I'm not dead sure they're our allies yet." said Naslund "But even if they are, they'd still make deadly opponents."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"That went as well as could be expected," said Adama, drinking from a cup of water.

"I believe it could've gone more smoothly if you had withheld the information about Kobol." said Eric Schindler. "That confused him,"

"I'm a soldier, not a diplomat." Adama said. "Sometimes I'm just too straightforward."

Have you ever had to negotiate before?" Schindler asked.

"A year ago, when we ran into another battlestar called the _Pegasus,_ two of my men were involved in an incident resulting in the death of an officer from _Pegasus._ They were to be executed, and I didn't agree with the trial."

"I should say not! Summary execution is a not a good way to ensure discipline, not in your situation!"

"Perhaps, but I wasn't very good at convincing the CO of _Pegasus,_ Admiral Helena Cain. Our negotiation lasted all of two minutes. Then our guns were turned on each other."

"I see what you mean," Schindler said softly. He exhaled.

"So you'll excuse me if my diplomacy is not up to scratch."

"This will be a shock to him, this fleet appearing from nowhere," said Schindler.

"If you are any indication to go by, I don't doubt it." Adama took another sip. "There's still one thing I don't understand."

"What's that?" Schindler asked.

"Why'd you pick such a godsforsaken planet like this one to colonize on?" Adama asked, looking straight at him.

"Because we found it first, and we don't want any visitor from other nations showing up. We didn't tell anyone where we were going, we just left the solar system."

"Is that all?" Adama asked slowly.

"That's all," said Schindler quickly, his voice steady.

"Does your ship need to be so heavily armed, though? Your cargo bay contained assault rifles."

"We don't know if anyone might be coming after us. We can't be too prepared."

"Your ship would make a good assault platform. That and the small army you've got on board."

"I would appreciate it if you just accepted my word. What could possibly be on that planet that needed an army?"

Adama shrugged. "I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_."

"I can't."

The door chime went off, another luxury the _Valkyrie_ afforded her commander. "Enter," Adama said.

"Bill, good job." said Admiral Greer. "I got over here as fast as I could. I'm glad things went quickly here. I personally would have expected just a little more skepticism on the part of the Terrans."

"It worked, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?" Adama said. "Water?"

"Sure." Greer sat down across from Schindler. "Our next concern is what to do next."

"I think shore parties should be our primary concern right now." Adama said. "The civilians would kill to get off those ships."

"Wait. You're not going down on the planet, are you?" Schindler burst out.

"Yes." Adama said calmly.

"You mean civilians, _on the ground_, on Bajor?"

"Yes." Adama repeated. "Since there seems to be nothing special about the planet, except for the bracing climate, there shouldn't be anything wrong with our going done there, isn't that right?"

Schindler was caught in a corner and he knew it. Discovered, but not understood, he went on the defensive. "I'm not at liberty to discuss this, insofar as it would be dangerous to go down there unarmed."

"You just don't want us discovering what you're hiding down there."

Greer was complete lost. "What the frak are you two going on about?" he asked, bewildered. "Is there something I should know about."

"When I find out, you'll be the first to know," said Adama. "Our new friend here isn't to eager to let me know, though. You might have to go and find out for yourself."

There was no doubt that the Colonials could carry this out. No doubt at all. There was nothing, short of nuking the fleet, that the _Activity_ could do in response.

"You wouldn't," Schindler growled.

"For gods sake, just tell tell us what's going on!" Greer burst out.

"I can't." Schindler said.

"Forget it, Joe, there's nothing we can get out of him right now." Adama said. "Next: Earth."

"_Valkyrie_ goes forward again?" Greer suggested. "It's closer to the size of their starships and might alarm them less. It sure worked here."

"More or less," Adama admitted. "This time I'd like to pick and choose my crew."

Greer raised his eyebrows. "But the _Valkyrie's_ got one of the best crews we could find."

"But it's not _my_ crew. I want some people from _Galactica._ I have a team that works very well together."

Greer relented. "Fine. You do that. But make sure that it's only temporary. I don't want any mutinies on account of your preferences. They were selected because they were the best, and some toes might get stepped on here."

"Don't worry. I'll be ready to leave by tomorrow."

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Saul Tigh barricaded the door to his quarters, on the way back sweeping the room for bugs. "No one's listening." he said.

"What do we have to talk about?" asked Tyrol. "Nothing's changed."

"The battle's over. We were in key positions, any one of us could've succumbed to hidden protocols or Cylon programming." said Tigh. "We didn't. If we are in fact Cylons, then we're the least dangerous variety I've ever known."

"Perhaps because of our knowledge-" said Anders.

"Maybe, maybe not. Athena knew all along she was a Cylon. Boomer didn't. We're in between." Tyrol pointed out.

"Either that, or we're different," Tigh said. "I never saw another copy of myself on New Caprica, or any of you. We're all the same people that lived before the Holocaust, and I know for a fact I fought in the first Cylon War."

"But humanoids hadn't been developed by the Cylons yet. They still looked like chrome toasters." said Anders.

"Maybe we weren't built by the Cylons!" Tyrol exclaimed.

"What?"

"Think about it, there are five other models than the ones we've seen, we're three of them, and we know Tory's the fourth."

"What are you suggesting?" Anders asked.

"I don't know. All I know is that we aren't Cylons, at least not in the same way as the others." His eyes lit up. "Maybe we were designed by Capricans!"

"Now that makes more sense than anything else I've heard so far!" Tigh exclaimed. "There must be some manual or something describing the Cylons and the development program somewhere in Battlegroup 41."

"Because of the mission!" Anders slammed his fist on the table. "_Valkyrie!_ Adama's on _Valkyrie!_"

"Hold your horses, boy!" Tigh snapped. " We can't act suspiciously, but we have a chance. He's collecting crewmen for the trip to Earth, right?" Tigh glared at Tyrol. "And there's a good chance you've been chosen."

"If I do manage to find the data, I'll get it to you when the fleet joins-"

"That's only if you've been chosen," Tigh said. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Chances are it's classified. You'll need my access codes. And if you're _not_ chosen, we need a backup plan."

"What if we reveal ourselves to be Cylons?" Anders suggested.

"They'd never believe us, especially from me. The idea itself is so preposterous I almost don't believe it myself. But it's true, so we need to act on it. If somehow it turns out we're not liabilities to the fleet, then we have nothing to worry about." Tigh looked at everyone expectantly. "Don't just sit there, get the hell out of here before someone notices you're gone!"

_**Tau Ceti II (Bajor)**_

"It's a godsforsaken rock." Starbuck complained. The sunlight was intense, but not bright. The area they had landed in wasn't even that hot compared to some areas of the planet. The volcanic plain, with the isolated stands of tree-like plants were still distorted by rising heat currents. The field telephone was radiating enough heat to warm a room in winter.

"_There's something down there that the Terrans are attempting to hide."_ Tigh said over the line. _"Rock or not, you've got to get close enough to their camp to get a look through the field glasses. Then get your team and report back._"

"Roger that," Thrace said, hanging up the receiver. "All right, let's go."

The Raptor had approached from the opposite side of the planet and flown close to the ground in an attempt to avoid ground-based DRADIS. They hadn't been pinged, and had gotten pretty close to the camp, so the walk wasn't more than a dozen klicks.

The sky was blue, but a lighter shade, seeing as the oxygen content was a little less than Caprica or Kobol had been. It was still well within parameters, but the marines wouldn't be running a marathon any time soon.

"Activity up ahead," one of the soldiers reported. Thrace peeked through the binoculars.

"Definitely the camp..." she muttered. "Flank out, we're going in for a closer look.

With the various confirmations coming from the marines, Thrace positioned herself on a ridge overlooking the next expanse. There were no sensors or sentries, so she crossed the valley at a run.

At the next ridge she dived for cover, and pulled out the glasses. The camp was a normal affair, with tents and other facilities all set up in a neat and orderly way.

But what was that outside the camp, surrounded by some sort of cordon?

It looked like some sort of floating cloud, or mist. It was definitely what the buzz was about. Armed guards and a sensor cordon (laser beams?) testified to that.

But what was it?

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Welcome aboard, Chief." Adama said. "Good to have you with us."

"What can I do for you, Admiral?" Tyrol asked.

"Recon photos of the Terran starship _Activity._" Commander Nelson said, pushing a couple of photographs towards him. "We've found missile tubes and engines, and airlocks, but we can't figure out what _these_ are."

Tyrol understood what was asked of him. As a deck chief he knew most machinery inside-out.

But this had him stumped. "Do you have anything closer?" he asked. Nelson pushed another sheet towards him.

"I've never seen anything like.. Wait a minute. They look like large laser generators."

"Could they be weapons?" Adama asked.

"If sufficiently powerful... They could be..." Tyrol was lost in thought. "It would be less wasteful for point defense... And tied in to the computer could intercept incoming missiles and fighters more quickly and more accurately than a blanket of suppression fire could." He whistled. "You've got to hand it to them, they've got a good system there, _if_ that is in fact what those are. The other possibility is that they are low powered lasers to shoot meteorites, seeing as their ship is so delicate."

"Not built for combat?"

"Not the same kind of combat. All the missile tubes are located in a cluster near the laser emitters. The ship is designed to launch everything she's got and try to pick off what's coming at her before she's destroyed. She's about speed, not power. If we give them a chance, they could hurt us."

"Thank you, Chief. That will be all."

After Tyrol had left, Nelson turned to Adama. "Not what I expected. Our ships and Cylon ships are both designed around the same combat principle. This is a completely different. We'll need new countermeasures."

"Hopefully things won't come to that," Adama said.

"Hopefully. But if they do, I don't want to be unprepared. I don't want to find fifteen nukes coming screaming at us before we can launch a single fighter."

"I think, in the interest of security, we should keep all indicators of our capabilities under tight guard. The less they know the better."

"So are we ready to jump?" Nelson asked.

"Lock the ship down. We're leaving in thirty minutes."

_**USS Activity**_

"We're in a pretty pickle and no mistake." said Naslund, glaring out the window at the _Valkyrie,_ and now the larger _Galactica_ and _Agrippa._ "We can't put a nose out of joint now."

"We're not helpless," Emmerson said, floating over the control panel. "We're heavily armed, or what would be called heavily armed in our time."

"Those ships could just swat us aside. Look at them! They're massive!"

"I'm not worried about here." Emmerson admitted. "What about Earth? These ships could bridge the gap in less than a month, where even a one way radio message would take twenty years to cross the same divide."

"Sweet Jesus!" Naslund swore. "Do you think we could defend ourselves?"

"At the level I remember, maybe by sheer volume. Now... Who knows? How far could Earth have advanced in forty years?"

"It better be far enough. Otherwise we're screwed."

"But they haven't been aggressive yet! They haven't made any hostile moves. We should thank our lucky stars for that."

"But with the situation on Earth..." Naslund thought for a second. "Could they touch off something else that's been there already? Things aren't all hunky dory back home."

"That's for them to find out. We go back, we won't recognize the place. We'll be like a bunch of Rip van Winkles. And that won't be fun at all." The radar beeped like an alarm clock. "And they're off!" Emmerson exclaimed.

"What?" Naslund shoved himself over, almost missing the handhold.

The battlestar _Valkyrie_ had disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

_**Moscow, SSR**_

Tatiana Beria stared coldly across the desk at Jeremiah Benson, ambassador to the United States. "Please convey to your leader that I have no intention of revealing any more data about my space station than I already have."

Benson sighed again. "Madam President, the presence of a space station within striking distance of our shipyard could be taken as a hostile act. And we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

"Quite right, we wouldn't." Beria said calmly. She didn't give any other signs of agreement, not even a nod. "But considering it has no nuclear weapons, and the curve of the Earth prevents an enhanced laser from hitting it, is our station really within striking distance? Or is your shipyard, and the most definitely nuclear-armed starships within, within striking distance of _our_ station?"

Benson rose to the challenge. "Our shipyard was there before your station was, Madam President. I hope you remember that."

"It is a scientific platform, nothing more. If you want the specifications, I can have them delivered to your embassy."

"That would help." Benson said.

"Unless there is anything more, I have other matters to attend to," Beria said, gesturing to the door. That was a dismissal, and Benson knew it.

"Good day, Madam President." Benson said, leaving the room.

Once Beria was alone, she let her countenance relax a bit. Dealing with that pompous ambassador definitely did not make her day, as necessary as it was. She puched the intercom on her desk. "Chekov," said said, reverting to her native Russian tongue, "Bring in some coffee now. And page Iosef Michaelovich." She leaned back in her chair and stared at the stone ceiling.

The Second Soviet Republic had been founded in 2020 on the foundation of the old Soviet Union. Many predicted the country would fall, but things couldn't get worse than the capitalist Russia that had preceded her. The military had advanced to almost American levels of sophistication, and the economy had been righted. So far things were proceeding well, but the stress sometimes got Beria.

A knock on the door brought her to her senses again. "Enter,_"_ she called.

"Secretary of defense Iosef Michaelovich," Chekov announced, retreating after setting down a tray on Beria's desk.

"Madam President," Iosef Perogov inclined his head.

"Sit down, Iosef Michaelovich," Beria said. Perogov did so.

"I assume you've called me here because of your, hmm, discussion with the American ambassador?"

"You would be correct," Beria said, pouring herself a cup of the strong black coffee. "The Americans are becoming suspicious of our station."

"If they want to, I say let them." Perogov said. "They can take their radiation detectors and they will never find a thing."

"They claim it infringes on their territorial rights in space. We're too close to their spacedock."

"Then that's their problem for putting it over our heads," Perogov replied glibly. "Whatever happened to the non-proliferation of space? _They_ started building their weapons platforms up there, not us."

"Satellites are one thing," Beria said. "But armed starships capable of movement in and around the Solar System, and two even capable of _leaving_ it!"

"Granted, they caught us by surprise there, but we are almost ready to make an attempt ourself." Pergov said cautiously. He deliberately left out the time difference of forty years between the launch of the _Activity_ and the start of construction on the _Molotov._ It was never a good idea to irritate Beria, but she was on that train of thought already, so it couldn't do too much harm.

"The farthest we've got is the asteroid belt! Yuri Gagarin never would have intended for us to get so far behind the Americans."

Perogov had a comment on how the capitalist system easily out-spent her communist counterpart, which led to the collapse of the first Soviet Union and the widening of the gap, but thought it wise to keep it to himself. "But now that we are organized again, we are catching up." he said instead.

"Yes, but fast enough? Is it possible that they have their own superweapon in development?"

"It is very possible. Their fourth Orbital Exploration platform, _Van Allen_, is very close to the antimatter belt in the same Van Allen system we ourselves are collecting from."

"If they load weapons of that magnitude onto their satellite platforms, we could be in serious danger." said Beria, strongly hinting that action should be taken without actually saying anything of the sort.

"We've tried investigating the station, but whenever our shuttlecraft get close enough to detect anything, they detect us and assuredly stop whatever they were doing at the time."

"Granted. That is a problem." Beria admitted. There was still no break in her stony features. "Very well, Comrade Michaelovich. That is all."

"Madam President," Perogov inclined his head before turning and leaving the room.

_**Allied Space Station OE-2**_

Walter Stone glared out the small porthole at the Russian space station in the distance, no more than a point of light. Earth's orbit was definitely more crowded these days, especially now that China had joined the Allies and Russia in space. Currently the Allies consisted of mainly Britain, America, and to a lesser degree Canada. Germany, France, and Spain were also involved, but not to the same degree. On the other side of the divide was Russia, and now China. Despite the best intentions, space was not turning out like Stanley Kubrick had wanted it to be. There was no Space Odyssey, only a nuclear stalemate carried up from the surface.

"_Lieutenant Stone, Observation. Watch your radar, one of the Russkis is getting a bit cozy with us."_

"Roger that Observation, I see him." Starships had come a long way since the delicate moving space stations of the 2020s. Modern starships actually could look menacing and sleek instead of bulky and embarrassing.

Such was the case with this starship, the _Red October._ Two downward curving wings shielded several missile batteries, all of which were nuclear capable.

"_Red October, Red October,_ change orbit immediately. You are straying into our weapons range." Stone warned them over the wireless.

"_Message recieve. Moving orbit."_ came the reply. Clearly their normal radio operator was asleep or off duty, and the replacement had checked off _can speak English_ on the off chance. Stone chuckled.

Sure enough, the _Red October_ moved into a more comfortable orbit. This wasn't the first time they'd tried something like this, and it wouldn't be the last.

His radar beeped insistently. Stone sighed. "Observation, can you give me a visual? My radar's malfunctioned, seems to think there's a new contact right in front of me." He waited for the reply. "Observation, wake up, will you?"

Still no reply. "What the hell?" Stone muttered as he switched to outside channels. The sheer amount of noise almost deafened him. Russian, Mandarin, English, French, and all at the same time.

He checked his radar again. Even though he had restarted the firmware, it still registered the new contact.

"_Stone, Observation, we've got a new contact."_

"You see where the hell it came from?" Stone asked.

"_Dunno. There was a flash, and POOF! There it was."_

Stone looked at his radar. "It's heading towards the Russian space station." He checked the wireless. Uh oh. "I think the Russians hailed it. And... And it's responding."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

The DRADIS screen was cluttered beyond belief. There were starships and space stations everywhere. They weren't very substantial, nothing more than orbital jobs, but there were so many of them...

"We're being hailed by one of the space stations," reported Hoshi from comm.

"Put it on speaker," Adama ordered. The language wasn't english, strangely enough.

"Sounds like Cancerese," said Gaeta. "I've never heard this dialect before."

"Well, I suppose we're in the right place then," said Nelson. "Anyone speak Cancerese?"

"Maybe they speak Caprican. Otherwise..." Adama picked up the phone. "This is the battlestar _Valkyrie_ to Space Station. Please respond."

Sure enough, the voice on the other end started speaking broken Caprican. "_This is the Russian station _Zhukov_. What can we do for you?_"

"We would like to request a meeting with your ambassadors or government, whatever can be arranged." Adama replied.

"_Wait one."_

"So far so good." said Nelson. "What are they doing?"

"Contacting their superiors, I assume." Adama said.

"We're receiving another communication." Hoshi reported. "This one's from the Allied Space Station OE-1."

"What? I thought they were contacting their superiors," Adama said, confused.

"They want you to come aboard," Hoshi relayed. "They say they'll ferry you down to the capital."

"_Battlestar _Valkyrie_? This is _Zhukov. _We can ferry you down to the capital as soon as you're ready."_

"What the hell is going on here?" Adama exclaimed so _Zhukov_ couldn't hear him.

"Commander, we're getting another communication, this time from the Chinese starship _Long March._ What should I say?"

"Tell them we'll wait. Tell the Allies, too." said Adama. "We'll deal with them in the order we found them. Contact the Russians, we'll deal with them first."

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"I have no idea what it was," Kara said. "It just looked like a cloud, or mist. Sort of translucent."

Agathon nodded, while taking down notes of her description. "What were the Terrans doing around it?"

"They'd set up a kind of sensor grid, or cordon. I saw three armed guards, continuously, for five minutes."

"Odd." Agathon closed the binder. "Were you detected."

"Nope." Thrace waited, making sure he was done. "Am I off-duty now? I haven't had a minute of free time since I got back."

"I hope you don't want shore leave, the parties are cancelled on account of the Terrans."

"No. Actually, I was hoping youcould tell me were Sam is."

"Ensign Anders? Couldn't tell you right now, you'll have to look for him yourself."

_Ensign_ Anders? He'd taken a page from her book. Using his new rank as an indicator, she checked the hangar deck first. It turned out he'd taken to Raptors instead, and his instructor was none other than Margaret Edmonson.

"Nope, he's not due for another two hours." said Edmonson. "He's off-duty right now. Check the bar."

Sure enough, there he was. Odd thing was he was sitting alone. Kara pinned it down to her untimely 'demise'.

"Hey Sammy!" she said, sitting down in front of him.

"_Good Gods!!"_ he almost jumped right out of his seat. "Where the frak did _you_ come from? You're... You're dead! Or am I drunker than I thought?"

"It'll take a little more than a toasted Viper to keep me down!" she said, laughing maniacally. "You don't look so good. Not still pining over me, are you? Get over me!"

"Never thought I'd hear that," he muttered. "My dead wife returning to tell me to stop worrying about her..."

"Shut up!" she laughed. "Are you going to buy me a drink, or what?"

"Yeah, fine," he said. "Hey Joe, get me another and one for my deceased wife!"

Joe burst out in laughter at that, sliding two glasses down the bar. "New from BSG-41!" he said.

"Ah, fresh stuff!" Starbuck said, downing it in one go. "So, Sammy, have you hooked up with anyone else yet?"

That hit a nerve. "You were dead," he said.

"You _did!"_ Starbuck chuckled with victory, buoyed by the alcohol. "Who was it? It wasn't Seelix, was it? I saw her looking at you..."

"Actually, no," Anders mumbled.

"Tori! You frakked Tori, didn't you? Haha! No no, wait, who else... Not Racetrack?"

"Good _gods_, no!" Anders shook his head vigorously. "She's one evil professor."

"A little hard on you nuggets, ain't she?" She finished off her drink and shouted for another one. "So who then?"

"Your second guess was right, but we ran into a complication, and broke it off." said Anders.

"Oooh, complication? Not little old me returning, was it?"

"No, a little worse than that. It didn't just involve us."

Thrace laughed. "What? You dropped a cigar on a fuel tank? Pissed off Tigh? Found out she's a Cylon?" She shut up as Anders suddenly left. Her intoxicated mind couldn't understand it. She remedied that by ordering another drink.

_**Pentagon, Washington D.C., United States of America**_

"What've we got now?" Brigadier General Patton mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. He didn't like being woken up in the middle of the night, or morning, or whatever the hell it was.

"Starship just appeared in orbit, sir." said an adjutant, rushing up with a stack of paper under one arm. "About nine hundred feet long, we're picking up weak radiological signatures, so they've got nukes on board."

"What action have they taken?" Patton asked.

"At the moment they're holding station between OE-2 and the Russian station _Zhukov._ We picked up uncoded transmissions between them and the Russians."

"What'd they say?"

"The ship appears to be crewed by humans, or some race that speaks English. The ships doesn't seem to be affiliated with the Russians in any way, but the Russians rolled out the red carpet before we did. They're going to start negotiations of some sort, and we've been told to wait."

"We still don't know _who_ they are?"

"No, sir."

Patton shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Right, uh, who else is coming?"

"General Trent should be in soon. You two are all we could get on such short notice."

"And let the President know about this. Try to keep things quiet,"

"General Patton!" boomed a voice from the other end of the room: Trent.

"Yessir?" Patton called back.

"What's up, General?" Trent asked, standing beside the plot table. Patton hashed out again what the adjutant had told tim.

Trent whistled. "Very interesting. The Russians, you say?" Patton nodded, and Trent continued. "Seeing as this ship has nuclear weapons, and the method of it's arrival, I'd say we have a serious problem here. Should this ship carry advanced technology, and this theoretical technology should, say, fall into Russian control, what would happen then?"

"Global war?" Patton tried.

"A complete shift in the balance of power! With Russian starships able to appear and disappear at will, our entire orbital defense network will be compromised! One of these ships took us completely be surprise! Imagine a fleet of them!!"

Patton didn't have to. The implications would be terrifying for the country, and the world. The last time the balance of power had been shifted so abruptly, World War Two had happened. Only this time, it would be with nukes (or worse, who knew what that ship carried?).

"I see what you mean, sir." Patton said slowly.

"So you see, we must make sure that the technology doesn't fall under Russian or Chinese control. That means either we get it, or no one does."

"How will we do this?" Patton asked.

"By any means necessary." Trent surreptitiously glanced over the room, towards the naval division. On the wall chart were the names of twenty-three _Farragut_-class ballistic missile submarines. Fourteen of them were at sea.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

William Adama knocked on the door of the guest quarters. "Madam President?" he called.

"What is it?" she called from inside. She had come aboard less than half an hour before departing Tau Ceti, and had remained in her cabin during the voyage. She said it had to do with her cancer treatment, as the medication made her nauseous.

"Can I come in?" Adama asked. He opened the door after hearing an affirmative.

"What is it?" Roslin asked, a little pale but on her feet. "Have we gotten anywhere with the Russians?"

"I told the United States and China that we'd deal with them in time, but the United States seems vehemently opposed to our going down to Russia. They keep insisting we talk to them first, and they aren't happy with the Russians in general."

"Well tough luck," Roslin replied. "I don't want to give into ultimatums just because that country might not happen to like the other."

"I'm still getting used to the whole 'country' idea," Adama admitted. "Ever since we first contacted them they've been bickering about us."

"I'll talk to them all... On _my_ own time." Roslin said. "When do I leave?"

"In five minutes a Raptor will take you down to Moscow," said Adama. "You're going to be meeting with Tatiana Beria, the president of the Second Soviet Republic. The country's very nice, from what they've told me. The Americans seem to think it's a frozen wasteland, but that might be biased."

"I'll see when I get down there." said Roslin. "The good news is, nothing's happened so far."

"You'll get to live to see the Promised Land, don't worry." Adama reassured her. "Don't forget to include how many refugees we have, and any technology we have to offer in exchange for a home. From the sound of things, they'll like the FTL drive a lot."

Roslin nodded. "Just let me get my things," she said.

"Of course," said Adama, bowing out of the room. He walked through the corridors, unfamiliar yet unchanged, almost like he'd never left the ship.

"_Commander Adama, the President of the United States is on line one. Commander Adama to CIC, ASAP."_

"Now what?" Adama muttered. What new offer were they going to force on him this time?

CIC was on half duty, seeing as they were in standard orbit and at condition three. The Terrans hadn't posed any threat yet, and he hadn't expected them to. He nodded to Hoshi and picked up the phone. "This is Commander Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie._ What can I do for you?"

"_I'm President Warren, of the United States of America. I understand you're about to launch an envoy to Moscow, is that correct?"_

"That's what I told your intermediary," Adama said. "It should be launching now."

He looked at the DRADIS console. Sure enough the Raptor was approaching the atmosphere, about to commence the dive to Moscow airspace.

"_Admiral, I implore you not to open negotiations with the SSR. The effect your technology could have on the balance of power in the world is beyond comprehension. And I'm only talking about the technology we have seen, you marvelous faster-than-light drive. That alone could lead to chaos."_

"Mr. President, we are going to negotiate with all the powers, and see who has the most to offer. If you want us, and our technology, you can follow the same rules as everyone else is following. I don't take well to threats and demands. We'll hear each nation out equally. There is no bias in the decision we come to."

"_Admiral, how can I convince you of the situation if you refuse to discuss it? I have been trying to reach you but I have been constantly told that we would be dealt with in order. Admiral, we must talk! There must be some-"_

"Sir!" said Gaeta, at tactical. "A coded transmission is being broadcast, but I can't trace the location. It's been relayed so many times, and it's scrambled so badly, I can't..." His console then rang out. "One of the weapons platforms has come online!" He checked his board again. "It's a Russian one!" he reported in disbelief.

"What's it doing?" Adama barked. "Set condition two throughout the ship. Alert Vipers to the tubes!"

"It's launched!" Gaeta shouted, and Adama could see smaller contacts leaving the satellite.

"Engage suppression fire! Hold the Vipers!" Adama ordered, but it was too late.

The smaller contacts approached the larger icon. Two big contacts appeared, false images put out by Swallows deployed from the Raptor. That diverted two missiles, while the other two clipped the shuttlecraft. The Raptor spiraled into the atmosphere.

_**Moscow, SSR**_

"That the missiles came from a Russian satellite, there is no question!" Benson almost shouted. "That an untraceable communication came from the surface before the attack, is also undeniable. Madam President, do you deny that you attack an unarmed envoy on the way to negotiate with you?"

Beria wanted to laugh in Benson's face, but her composure remained impassive. "Mr. Ambassador, while the evidence you have stated _does_ imply that we launched the attack, I can assure you we did not. I does not benefit us to attack those who we would negotiate with, those who could, at any time, disappear without a trace." Her face remained calm but her eyes glowed. "But it _does_ benefit you, does it not? And I would not put it past the CIA, or the ineptitude of our inexperienced Satellite corps, to allow the United States to get her hands on an activation code. If I were to want the technology, I could send a code which would send ten satellites launching more substantial weapons, to disable their starship and take the technology." She tightened her grip on the arm of her chair. "They might turn to you, now that we have proved untrustworthy."

Benson had been getting redder and redder as she spoke. "Are you insinuating that _we_ somehow used _your_ satellite to attack the envoy?" When he saw no indication from Beria, he took it for a yes. "We did no such thing!"

"If and when the Colonials do settle, I'm sure they will want retribution for what occurred. And if it turns out you did it, and they settle your territory..."

"If we didn't do it, and you didn't do it, then who does that leave?" Benson asked tactfully.

"We both know. And we both also know that any of the SSR's allies could have obtained codes, even as worthless as the one used." She ignored Benson's splutter. "Of course it was worthless." Beria said. "A more valuable code would activate far more potent weaponry on far more unmanned weapons platforms, not a single conventional satellite. But it _may_ have been China. It may also have been the Shia Confederacy. But the question remains: what now?"

"We must continue the negotiations," said Benson. "They still need a home. And their fleet can't stay in orbit of Tau Ceti for ever."

"No, they cannot." Beria did not mention the _Activity,_ who was en-route and had probably arrived at that very planet. Perhaps there was more to the situation than met the eye.

"But perhaps we can work a way around this," Benson said. "Could we, for example, discuss this all in one group?"

"You mean a committee? You mean so every offer made by one party is known by the others? I find this unacceptable for the Soviet Republic."

"Would it give anyone an unfair advantage?" Benson asked? "Or will you just take the party hostage if you got them alone?"

"I don't appreciate your tone, Mr. _Ambassador_." Beria had to restrain herself from hissing at him. "I suggest you keep your place! As I said, this attack seems to further your agenda, not our own. Logic seems to be my side. Either this is a fortunate coincidence, or your superiors haven't told you everything."

"I'll contact them immediately, if I may?"

Beria waved him out, being careful not to seem impatient and relieved. When he was gone, she paged Chekov to bring in some tea.

The Soviet Republic had definitely not fired the missiles, at least as far as she knew. Unless the NKGB, the new intelligence arm, had decided to act unilaterally, which wasn't impossible considering Vasili Gromyko was in charge. He hadn't always approved of her policies, and the only reason she kept him was because he knew where all the bones were buried.

"Your tea, madam President?" Chekov interrupted.

"Yes, yes, thank you." She turned to her paperwork again. "Our ground radar reports that the ship crashed on our side of the border with Chechnya. Get General Gorbacheov to send a recovery team, and check for survivors."

With that out of the way, she had another problem. She had to find out if any Russians were responsible for the attack. If not, she was out of danger, relatively at least.

If so, she was in a lot of trouble.

_**Tau Ceti II**_

"The Colonials are starting to get interested," said Patterson as he ate his MRE. "What if they start nosing around another part of the planet?"

"That's not our concern," said Captain Hollingsworth. "But even if they do find out what's happened, what are they going to do about it?"

"Seize it," was Patterson's automatic reply.

"But there's nothing of value in there." Hollingsworth said. "It's the same environment as Tau Ceti, unfortunately."

"So what's happening, sir?" Patterson asked.

"They're coming down to have a look, and if we want to stop them, we're welcome to." Hollingsworth shook his head. "Colonel Naslund sure has his hands full up there."

The air was shattered by a sonic boom high above.

"Is that them?" Patterson asked.

"I'm a Captain, not a radar." Hollingsworth snapped. "But you're right, it couldn't be anyone else."

Sure enough, it was one of the stumpy beige shuttlecraft the Colonials used. It howled down out of the sky to make a perfect landing on the sand, kicking up a massive dust storm.

The Terrans waited for the sand to settle before approaching the strange craft. It was short and stocky, with a bubble canopy not unlike an attack helicopter. It looked more like a stubby airplane than a shuttlecraft. But Terran shuttlecrafts had been slowly progressing in this direction. It would probably look less strange to someone back home.

The hatch on the side of the craft opened to reveal some decidedly military types. The flight suits were easily recognizable as such, but were of a different colour than the standard issue used by the United States Air and Space Force.

"I'm captain Eli Hollingsworth." said Hollingsworth. "Welcome to Bajor."

"I thank you for not trying to stop us from coming down," said the officer in charge. She hopped down from the wing of the craft. "I'm Captain Sharon Agathon of the battlestar _Galactica._ We're here about the cloud."

"Cloud?" Patterson exclaimed.

"_This_ cloud," Agathon pulled out a photograph from one pocket of her flight suit, and handed it to Hollingsworth.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. "We've been covering the anomaly."

"We came in from a distance." Agathon said. "But your setup doesn't seem to be protecting the anomaly from outside interference. I'd say it was almost exactly the other way around... One way or another, Admiral Greer got Colonel Naslund's permission to investigate the anomaly."

"We've got to tell them what it is," said Hollingsworth.

Patterson was inflamed. "Do you know what you're saying? The whole secrecy thing when we launched-"

"Was to prevent other nations knowing what had happened!" Hollingsworth snapped at his subordinate. "These people are not from Earth, and perhaps you haven't noticed but they've got what caused this, or at least what we had hoped to get from the Experiment. An order's an order, and I have to follow it."

"Admiral Greer sent me down here." said Agathon. "He wants to see you, or someone who knows what this is, up on the _Agrippa._ So who's coming?"

"I'll go." said Hollingsworth. He turned to Patterson. "Until I get back, Lieutenant Yeager is in command." Patterson nodded.

Agathon stepped back onto the wing and moved forward into the cockpit section of the Raptor.

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

"Welcome aboard the battlestar _Agrippa,_ Captain." Greer said. Hollingsworth had been ferried up in the Raptor, and led to Greer's quarters by Sharon Agathon.

"Thank you." said Hollingsworth, tacking on a hasty "Sir." at the end.

"I think you know what this is about," Greer said. Hollingsworth nodded. "Want anything to drink? Coffee, tea?"

"Tea." said Hollingsworth. "Earl grey, hot if you please."

"Don't worry about the heat, but I'm afraid we don't have much in the way of Terran tea... Would you like some Piconese cherry tea instead?"

"I'm game," said Hollingsworth. "I assume you want to know about the anomaly."

"Correct." said Greer. "Start at the beginning, mind you, I want to understand _exactly_ what's happening."

Hollingsworth nodded. "I'm probably the person best suited to that job. I'm one of the science officers aboard the _Activity." _He leaned back in one of Greer's leather armchairs._ "_It all started in the early 2000s. Those are our years of course."

Greer nodded. "Of course."

Hollingsworth continued. "With the new shuttles coming into service in 2015, NASA, along the the military, started research into technology that could put us miles ahead of our competitors. We kept the project top secret, naturally, unlike our concurrent development of the atomic motor, which should've been the intermediate step. Unfortunately, in our haste to make a mockery of the other space powers by launching the first faster-than-light ship before they'd launched their first atomic starship, we weren't careful enough. We'd launched two atomic starships, the first of their kind, and had begun construction on the third, which eventually became _Activity._ It was in 2023 that we tested the first drive. We did that in orbit, and programmed it to warp to Tau Ceti, which had been picked at random."

"You intended to send a drone there and back again," said Greer.

"Exactly! To prove it had been done." Hollingsworth sighed. "It was an unmitigated disaster. The probe never returned. And all along the flight path, the FTL drive had left some strange anomalies. We don't know what happened. These anomalies just appeared. But we do know one thing..." Hollingsworth leaned forward. "The past exists!" he whispered, as if it were a great secret. "It is as real and concrete as the present! These anomalies are somehow gateways to the past. And because of that, the _Activity_ was converted to a massive cold-sleep starship designed to follow the flight path of the probe, and collect data when it passed an anomaly. We also sent a ship full of colonists to construct a research outpost, and also to start the world's first colony out of our system. _Our _mission is to find the anomaly, which we have, and close it."

"But it's been open for the forty years it took you to get here." Greer pointed out.

"Hence the weaponry." Hollingsworth said. "We, and the passengers of the _Shackleton,_ are to return anything that came through back to its original time."

Greer took another pull from his cup. "Sounds pretty fantastic to me. We never had any problems like that."

"Were you on the flashpoint of global war?"

"Maybe worse." said Greer. "Where we come from, mankind is spread out through twelve different planets." He paused for a second, and corrected himself quietly. "Or they were. But when we first developed the drive, we weren't unified."

"We rushed," said Hollingsworth, "We made a mistake, and it cost us dearly. Unfortunately the _Shackleton _is still a month away, and we've already discovered tracks close to the camp. That doesn't mean that the indigenous creatures haven't ventured too close..."

"If you need any military support, we can deploy marines to assist your troops until the other ship arrives."

"Thank you, Admiral. That would be much appreciated."

"What are you expecting to find?"

"Hopefully nothing. Maybe animals, or, god forbid, intelligent species." Hollingsworth scratched his head. "We have to be careful, see? We could change someone's history. Or we could change our own. Atmospheric readings taken in the anomaly seem closer to Earth than Tau Ceti, unless it's so far removed from this time period that the air is different."

"Whatever it turns out to be, you have our support." said Greer. "Besides, I'm sure the troops would love something to do on solid ground, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. The civilians are raising quite a racket on account of your anomaly."

"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I have no control over that thing. I still haven't figured out a way to close it. That's why we're trying to prevent anything from escaping it."

"One more thing though," Greer started. "Has your government hinted at all that it would try again, before you left?"

"I should think not," said Hollingsworth. "That would be a mistake. Until we can find a way to close them we cannot risk opening any more. And if you'd allow us access to your FTL drives, we might not have to."

"That all depends on Admiral William Adama and the negotiating skills of President Laura Roslin." said Greer. "That's all, Captain. You can return to the surface now."

"Thank you, Admiral." Hollingsworth rose to his feet and left the room.

_**White House, Washington D.C., United States of America**_

The situation seemed to be getting worse all the time. The Russians, of course, denied having anything to do with the attack on (and possible murder of) the Colonial President. That was an act of war, only whomever had done it wasn't owning up for that very reason. Nobody knew what the Colonial ship would do if it found out the perpetrator, but it wouldn't be pleasant. There was a whole fleet waiting to settle some part of Earth, and it was possible some of that fleet was military. Even if it was only a few ships, the FTL drive in thoery allowed them to appear without warning, devastate a couple dozen cities with nuclear ordnance, and then vanish before the retaliation missiles left the atmosphere. Even one ship posed a serious threat. Whether or not the FTL drive allowed them to do that was another question, but it was too big of a question to risk.

For the moment, anyway. The Colonials were still more willing to deal with the Russians, even after what had happened. The Russians (providing it was them) had pulled a fast one and gotten away scot-free. And without the Colonials' top negotiator, the Russians might have a diplomatic advantage.

"Come in," said President Andrew Warren. The reports from the various intelligence services littered his desk, with many (sometimes contradictory) explanations on what might have happened. They hadn't come up with anything conclusive yet.

"Mr. President," It was Tasha Janik, Warren's adjutant. "I have Defense Secretary Malcolm here,"

"Very well, send him in." Warren said, disposing yet another CIA report unceremoniously into the paper shredder. Couldn't have anything sensitive leak out.

"Mr. President," Ian Malcolm said as he stood in front of Warren's desk. "Things are getting tense, I understand."

"You don't know the half of it. Sit down," Warren massaged his temples as Malcolm did so. "In science fiction, they always land here and lay waste to the place or we attack them... This is just bizarre."

"Wells or Asimov sure never thought of the Russians interfering with things, least as far as I know," Malcolm admitted. "But the fact of the matter is we are here, and so are the Russians."

"Point taken." Warren said. "But what do we do about it? The Russians are already catching up to us technologically, due in no small part to my predecessor's infatuation with the securing of the entire Middle East."

"That did put a severe strain on our fiscal situation, but we're recovering nicely," said Malcolm.

"Not fast enough!" Warren burst out. "We've squandered away a sizable lead! During the Cold War we always had economic superiority, and most of the time a small technological advantage to boot! All they had wrapped up was quantity. Now they have a more solid economic base, _and_ they have quantity. If the Colonials land there, they could have all three advantages and then we're screwed, if you'll pardon my french."

"We still have an economic lead over them. Unfortunately, by keeping their currency artificially regulated and keeping up relations with China and the various other Asian powers, they can at least keep up."

"I didn't think it would ever come to this. But the tension has been growing, and the arrival of the Colonials has made it impossible to ignore any longer." Warren said ominously. "We're now on the flash-point of a third global conflict, the likes of which man has not witnessed before."

"What are you suggesting?" Malcolm asked, not liking the implications.

"What would happen if we were to get the Colonials technology?" Warren asked. "The gap would be restored, and the tension would ease."

"True, but what if the Russians make a better offer?"

"We might be forced into a position where we'll have to use military force to get them to listen to us. I don't know how, but we have to keep them away from the Russians. We can't let them get into a position where the Russians can have their undivided attention. Russians are good at misinformation, their population doesn't know what's really going on half the time. What if they stiff the Colonials too?"

"And if the Chinese..."

"They'll never go near them, they aren't as yet advanced as us or the Russians." Warren was already running through the logistics in his mind, a skill that had won him the presidency. "I want to pull the USS _Sentinel _back from the asteroid belt. Maybe that'll give them pause. And we'll also bring back _Columbia_ and _Enterprise._ What ships do we have in orbit?"

"_Rathburn_ and _Cyclone_ are in spacedock."

"Five should be enough. Not that we have too many more anyway... And have Canaveral get every A-47 in the air that we can."

"Right sir." said Malcolm. "Are you sure this is a wise idea? I don't know how reasonable it is to jump to military force without trying negotiations."

"There hasn't been too much negotiation. Admiral Adama hasn't been taking kindly to our insistence, although that's partly my fault. Unfortunately he sees it as us trying to order him around instead of a genuine plea. I'm hoping that a little show of force, nothing more, will get him to sit up and pay attention."

"That is a very fine line to walk. If he gets the wrong idea... We'll look guilty for the attack earlier."

"So do the Russians," Warren replied. "The situation they've blundered into could jeopardize the world, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"But why military force?"

Warren smiled. "Adama's military. If a soldier recognizes anything, it's a show of force. It'll get his attention like nothing else will. I was a soldier too, remember? From man to man, this will work. I'm sure of it."

"Very well sir. I'll get the Joint Chiefs informed of the action we're about to take."

"You do that. And may God have mercy on all of us if I'm wrong."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

William Adama stared into space. The observation deck was empty, as it usually was at this time of morning. The sun was rising over the main continental mass on Earth, the same continent the Russians and Chinese both occupied. He didn't know what to think now. By all accounts, Laura Roslin was dead.

He had always found the prophecies true. They had led the fleet to Kobol, allowed them to find the Eye of Jupiter, they had even predicted the President's cancer.

So why had he ignored them this once? Why had he let her leave the ship?

For that matter, why did he bring her along?

_There was no way I could have known._ At least that's what he kept telling himself.

The chances of Roslin having survived were slim to none, and he knew it. The negotiations were now on very shaky ground. He hadn't brought along the vice-president, Tom Zarek, and now he was wishing he had. He didn't know how much Zarek could be trusted, but negotiation skills were one thing the ex-terrorist had in abundance. He had weaseled his way out of the _Astral Queen_ and found himself VP. That alone proved his negotiation skills.

But it had taken _Valkyrie_ five jumps from Tau Ceti. And he didn't have a Cylon computer to fit to a Raptor, and he didn't have Captain Sharon Agathon to run it even if he did.

Which meant he was now lead negotiator. And after the fiasco at Tau Ceti he didn't trust himself any further than he could throw himself.

"_Admiral Adama to the CIC. Admiral Adama to the CIC asap please."_

At this time in the morning?

Adama left the plate-glass observation port and picked up the phone. "Adama, sitrep."

"_Admiral, this is Commander Nelson. DRADIS just picked up a large vessel approaching us at sublight speeds. It's not a known Cylon configuration, and we're proceeding on the assumption that it is Terran."_

"Very well. Does it look like it poses any danger to us?" _Maybe someone trying to finish the job started earlier. _That narrowed down the list of suspects, for only three countries that Adama knew had space capability.

"_I'd say there's a very good chance. I'm picking up muted muclear radiation from the bow and very high radiation levels at the very stern. And the length is impressive as well. It's twice as long as a _Mercury-_class, but has comparable mass readings, so it's a lot less dense."_

"Set condition two throughout the fleet, but do not, I repeat, do not make _any_ aggressive moves!"

"_Sir, two more starships approaching us. Smaller than the first, about a quarter the size. The patrol Raptor also reports two more of the smaller starships moving out of spacedock."_

"Continue at condition two. I'm on my way." Adama hung up the phone. Five starships. Only the United States had that many ships. And they were without a doubt more advanced than the _Activity_ had been.

He pondered what the situation could mean as he ventured to CIC. The Americans had profusely denied taking part in the attack, and seeing as it had been a Russian satellite he wasn't about to convict them. But the Russians had made some claims of their own that held water, forcing Adama to wait for more clear evidence to incarcerate either nation, had either of them done it. The Russians seemed to point at one of their allies, they just didn't know which one. And they were always suggesting America as the culprit.

"What've we got?" Adama asked as he entered the command centre.

"We have images of the large ship." Nelson said. "It has the identification markings of the USS _Sentinel_, as you can see."

The DRADIS display was replaced by a colour image of the starship. It was definitely of a more advanced design. The front section of the ship, about as large as the _Valkyrie,_ was a cylinder encased lengthwise in a square scaffolding. The scaffolding had several hardpoints, most of which were occupied by missiles of various sorts. Along with two anti-meteorite lasers that looked as if they could carve up several cities from orbit, the _Sentinel_ certainly seemed to have an impressive complement of weapons. Again, they were based more on a shoot-first doctrine, one that involved shooting as much ordnance as fast as possible to overwhelm the opponent before they knew what hit them. The cylinder inside the framework rotated, giving the crew inside a kind of artificial gravity. This was at the expense of having curving decks and bulkheads, but they hadn't discovered true artificial gravity yet.

What drew Adama's attention was the engine emplacement. An atomic motor, the largest Adama had ever seen, was mounted on a reinforced gantry that extended out the rear of the ship proper. The boom was as long as the crew compartment, and in conjunction with the engine effectively doubled the length of the ship. This explained the unusual mass readings for a ship of that length.

"Have they hailed us?" Adama quickly asked.

"Negative, sir. No change." relayed Nelson. "I don't like it though."

"Sir!" cried Hoshi. "I have the President of the United States!"

"Put him through." ordered Adama. He glared at Nelson. "I think you're right. They're not happy with us, and I can guess why."

_"This is President Andrew Warren of the United States."_

"This is Admiral Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie._ You mind telling me what this is all about?"

"_I assure you that no shots will be fired if necessary. We must ask you to refrain from sending down any more shuttles to Moscow without having heard ."_

**"**Not by you, I hope," Adama replied. "It sounds to me like you were behind the incident that involved the death of our President!"

"_I assure you, Admiral, we were not. This is only a precautionary measure. In order to preserve world peace and stability, we must prevent you from negotiating with the Russians."_

"Peace and stability? So you get the technology, and superiority over the planet? That will get you peace, but not the kind you're looking for."

_"Admiral, at this point I'm willing to take any kind of peace over global war. We've already had two of them, and it almost destroyed a continent. Now with nuclear weapons we can destroy a planet."_

"And if you continue to dictate to us, I may have to remind you that your countries aren't the only ones who can sterilize your planet!" Adama was becoming more and more agitated with the American President's grim determination to prevent him negotiating with the Russians.

"_Adama, if you leave me no choice, I _will_ have to take action. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."_

"We have come hundreds of lightyears! We have travelled for over two years since our twelve homeworlds were destroyed, and this planet was the only thing that kept us striving for something!" Adama was on the verge of shouting now. "This is hardly the welcome we expected!"

"_Admiral, you failed to take into account that we have our own serious problems right now. You have upset the balance. If you had come earlier, or later, things might have been different. We need to make sure the ramifications aren't too vast. You are welcome to send a shuttle down to our capital. Otherwise you may leave orbit."_

"I warn you, Mr. President, that we are not to be taken lightly!" Adama slammed the phone down, and almost abruptly calmed. "They want to intimidate us by their show of force? I think it's time for a little demonstration. Stand by to launch Vipers!"

"Wouldn't it be wiser to just negotiate with him?" Nelson asked.

"I have every intention of talking with him," said Adama. "But acquiescing at this point would be a sign of weakness. I just want him to know we're not the type who will be pushed around." Adama looked at the DRADIS display. "By risking open conflict, it shows how desperate he is. He believes we're making a serious mistake."

"But the Russians believe the same thing about the United States. This proves nothing more than we already know about this crazy situation."

"One at a time. You see, I thought President Warren was trying to gain an advantage for himself. But if he's willing to risk his nation over a negotiation difficulty, there's something greater at stake, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess..." Nelson was still unconvinced. "Vipers are ready to launch."

_**Pentagon, Washington D.C., United States of America**_

General Trent pushed the intercom button on the conference phone. "Gentlemen, the President is listening to you."

"_I'm here,"_ came the voice. "_What have we got on their ship. I have a feeling they might try a show of force in response to our own."_

"That's what I'd do," said Admiral Greene. "The question is, how will they do it?"

"We outnumber them five to one." said Brigadier General Patton, looking at a projected radar display of the six ships in orbit. "Now their starship might be more advanced than ours, but we still have that numbers advantage."

"From photographs taken from satellites and space stations, we can see that the ship is designed around a different combat strategy than our own. We have found several turrets, but we do not know what their attack method might be. However, on the sides of these two pods, we can see several tubes. I'm guessing these are missile tubes, although they are a little large. I can't imagine anything else that could be used."

"_So these are like arsenal ships in space?"_ Warren asked.

"That's one theory." said Greene. "If this is the case, they could launch a devastating salvo. I count at least twenty tubes per pod."

"But there is one problem," said Patton. "They aren't placed pointing forward, so they don't make very good ship-to-ship weapons."

An adjutant knocked on the door of the conference room madly. Trent opened it. "If this isn't important, you'll hear about it later!" he barked.

"Yessir." said the adjutant. "General, we're picking up some activity from the _Valkyrie_, sir."

Sure enough, the radar signature of the _Valkyrie_ had blossomed. It was as if she had exploded.

"Get me some eyewitnesses!" Trent snapped into the scrambler. "What do the starships see?"

_"They appear to be small, one man fighter spacecraft, sir. Extremely maneuverable, almost impossibly so. The meteor lasers are the only things that'll track 'em. They've completely flanked all five ships, but are not firing, I repeat, they are not firing."_

"What?" Trent was completely deflated. If those ships were armed with cannon or missiles, they could fly to point-blank range and tear the starships apart. The large ship-to-ship missiles each starship carried would be useless against craft that small. Had this been anything greater than a demonstration, he would have been seriously concerned. _But did the Colonials know it was only a demonstration?_ It was a substantial risk President Warren was taking only to get their attention.

"_Another squadron of them is entering the atmosphere."_

"Launch Interceptors!" Trent ordered. "They are free to arm but do not fire, I repeat, do not fire!"

_**Viper N4563R, Captain Marcia Casse**_

"All Vipers, steady up!" Showboat ordered. "We're at cruising altitude now!" She nosed through a cloud bank and rolled level. They were over open ocean now, and ahead should be the port city of San Francisco. They were to do a quick flypast, and then return to dock with _Valkyrie. _This was all part of the show Adama had set up. Independent of that Casse had arranged for a little aerobatics display to put the population at ease. Just to make sure they didn't think they were under attack, Casse would give them a free airshow. _Why not have a little fun?_

Her DRADIS beeped insistently at her. "_Valkyrie,_ Showboat, I've a got a dozen contacts at ten, rolling in to intercept. We'll circle them and then continue to primary."

The Mk.VII rolled over and banked hard. In the atmosphere they were sluggish compared to the freedom of space, but were still extremely maneuverable. They were superior to even the Colonial Air Force's Mk.XI Thunderbolts, and were the first starfighters to serve alongside aircraft.

Her DRADIS beeped again, and every single contact disappeared.

Casse checked the firmware, which was fine. All her diagnostics showed that the avionics were functioning normally. So where had the contacts gone?

"_Valkyrie,_ Showboat, contacts have vanished, I repeat, contacts no longer register."

She scoured the sky ahead of her. Massive banks of white fluffy cloud painted the blue sky, but there were no black dots. Her entire squadron had picked up the signals, where had they gone?

She checked her computer again. No glitch.

Her Viper was suddenly buffeted by severe turbulence, almost like a jet wash. She frantically peered out the perspex canopy, but no joy. The DRADIS was empty except for her squadron.

She then looked left, and saw an aircraft. Only according to her DRADIS, it didn't exist.

The black fighter was low and very sleek. It had twin tail fins, twin jets, and a low fluid shape that looked more organic than mechanical. The canopy was a bubble cockpit much like her own, and a pilot looked back at her through a sun visor. He was that close.

She looked to her right, and saw another one. Above her was another. And yet her DRADIS was clear, not even a flutter. These planes should not exist. And yet they did.

"_Valkyrie, _Showboat. We're surrounded. I repeat, we are surrounded."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Get me the President!" Adama ordered Hoshi.

"Aye, sir." Hoshi reestablished the comm link. "You're on, Admiral."

"President Warren, it appears as though we have a stalemate," said Adama.

"_Your squadron is free to return to your ship any time it wishes to do so."_ said Warren. "_That is, of course, up to you."_

"Mr. President, your ships may also retreat at any time."

"_It appears we have both surprised each other with hidden weaponry,"_ said Warren. "_Are you still willing to negotiate?"_

"I believe I understand your motives, Mr. President. As soon as both our forces stand down I'll come down myself. I only hope your concern is serious enough to merit this incident."

"_I thank you, Admiral." _ said Warren. "_If I didn't believe it to be a crisis situation, I would not have gone to the extents I did. There are just some things you should know."_ The connection was broken.

"So he _was_ only posturing?" Nelson asked.

"So was I, to a degree," said Adama. "I personally don't believe he was willing to pull the trigger at all. Living on the brink of nuclear war gives a leader a good sense of when to push the button. He is seriously concerned for his country, as he said, to go to this length."

"What about the Russians?" Nelson asked in confusion.

"As I told the President when we first arrived, they are in no position to demand anything. They warrant no special treatment. But if there's something I should know, I'm going to find out about it. This is going to be our home, somewhere."

"You're a better negotiator than you let yourself believe."

"I'm just a soldier, and I can read a situation like this one. Negotiation?" Adama shook his head. "Different thing entirely."

"Different or not, you're our guy by default."

"Recall our Vipers. And get a Raptor ready."

* * *

Sorry for the hiatus. Exams took up a lot of time. Hope I didn't jump the shark with this one, I just wanted a little more action. 


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

_**Raptor 473, SSR**_

Margaret Edmondson slowly opened her eyes. Then she realized that she was hanging upside-down from her seat restraints. The bubble canopy of the ship was broken, and cool air drifted in through a crack in her helmet.

She tried to move, and found she had a pounding headache.

_This is gonna hurt in the morning. Oh what the frak..._

She released the glorified seat belt and dropped a meter onto what was now the ground. Her helmet absorbed most of the fall, as did her neck. She writhed on the floor, trying to get her aching limbs to function again.

She was lucky she wasn't injured worse than she was...

She pulled off her helmet, and breathed. There was smoke in the air, but miraculously the fuel hadn't caught fire. She looked out the shattered viewport and saw why.

They were in what could only be described as a dismal swamp. The sun was starting to set, as the sky that was visible was streaked with bright red, orange, and magenta, with clouds starting further up in the sky. The air was humid, and it was raining.

_Lovely._

Her thoughts were still coming back to her, when she realized where she was.

_This is Earth._

Then she remembered what she had been doing, and what had happened.

_They shot at us!_

And her bleary thoughts finally meandered to something very important...

_The President!_

She groaned as she hauled herself to her feet, slightly unsteady. Sure enough, President Roslin was hanging from her chair in the rear of the Raptor. Her scalp was bleeding, and she had a dark bruise on her forehead. She'd clearly hit herself hard. There might even be a fracture.

Edmondsonshook the President, who swayed slowly. "Madam President?! Can you hear me?! Madam President?!"

Getting not even a twitch as a response, Racetrack looked around for something to cushion the president's fall. Unfortunately large, soft pillows were not standard issue on Raptors, and the survival blanket was designed to keep people warm while being as small as possible. Useless.

"The things I do for the uniform," she muttered as the positioned herself below the president. She reached up, and unbuckled the strap.

She was knocked right over, but managed to cushion the fall, with only some pain. She lay Roslin down and checked her over, the medkit handy. She put a gauze on the scalp, which was still bleeding, and then saw Roslin's arm, although wished she hadn't. Arms weren't supposed to bend that way.

A splint at least restored normalcy to Roslin's appearance, and Racetrack draped one of the emergency blankets from the survival kit over her. With that chore out of the way, she turned her attention to the radio.

"_Valkyrie,_ this is Racetrack, come in _Valkyrie._ Kryptor, kryptor, this is Racetrack, we have crash-landed, repeat, we have crash landed."

There was nothing. Not even static. The Raptor had come to rest on the side of the hull, and perhaps the outside had crumpled in, gutting the avionics. Either way, it didn't work.

Racetrack picked up the emergency disaster beacon from the survival kit. It would lead any amateur with a pocket radio to her location, but she would rather be found by the enemy than abandoned in a swamp. And on an inhabited planet like Earth, someone was bound to be looking for her.

They had been lucky. If they had fallen anywhere else, they would have been dashed to pieces. The swamp had absorbed enough of the impact to soften the landing, but the ship would never fly again, that was for sure.

Time crawled by in aeons, and the sun lowered below the horizon.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Commander, you'll take command while I'm on the surface. See if you can scan the area where the Raptor went down and try and locate survivors.Otherwise just make sure nobody steals my ship."

"Aye, sir," said Nelson. "Good luck."

"I hope I don't need it." said Adama.

He left CIC and traversed the ship, moving into the starboard flight pod. It was a strange novelty to command a battlestar with two operating flight pods. _Galactica_ only had one operating flight pod. Even though the starboard pod had been converted back to a proper pod (something which had given crewmen in the year on New Caprica something to do), it was so crowded with refugees that it couldn't be used.

The Raptor was fueled and waiting on the hangar deck. The pilot was one of the original _Valkyrie_ crewmembers, though Adama didn't remember his name.

He sat in the rear compartment, strapping himself to the chair.

"You all buckled in there, sir?" asked the pilot, to which Adama nodded.

The Raptor this time had a Viper escort down to the atmosphere, but no satellites activated this time. When they entered the atmosphere, the Vipers broke off, to be replaced with the American stealth aircraft flying at their maximum ceiling. They kept up with the Raptor (though remaining undetected the entire time), and led the shuttle down to the surface.

The port at which the Raptor landed was a large airport, filled with civilian aircraft of many sizes, most of them jet fueled. The hatch to the Raptor opened, letting in a blast of warm humid air. It was only then that Adama thought about having dressed for the weather.

Outside on the tarmac were four black cars, something Adama hadn't seen since the Cylon attacks.

"Admiral Adama?" asked a man who leapt out of the second car. He looked uncomfortable in his suit, due to either the heat or the humidity. When Adama nodded, he said, "I'm Dennis Morgan, and I'll be escorting you to the White House. If you'll follow me, sir."

He ushered Adama into the vehicle, which Adama found to his relief to be air conditioned. Once everyone was secure, the car started moving silently.

Adama commented on this, and Morgan grinned. "Hydrogen engine," he explained. "We've had them for about thirty years. The air still gets beastly hot from the hydrocarbons we threw up there already."

"Global warming?" Adama asked.

"You got it. That a problem where you come from, too?"

"Not as much. We use processed hydrocarbons for smaller vehicles only because it's cheap. We were converting them to use tylium instead, which is much less polluting."

"Never heard of tylium before," said Morgan.

"It forms on smaller asteroids. I expect your asteroid belt to be full of it."

"We just got out there, maybe forty-two years ago." said Morgan. "Hell, we might've found some tylium and never known it."

The trip was uneventful after that, with Adama making small talk with the Terran escorts and learning about the United States. What he was hearing made the country sound like a modified and shrunken version of Caprica dropped in the middle of the planet. Nothing about Russian or any of the other powers was said, and he didn't raise the question.

The motorcade pulled into a large driveway, passing through gardens and clouds of mist thrown up by an irrigation system. Adama couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a proper garden. New Caprica had been to harsh to grow anything, including many types of food.

The entrance hall was covered in a thick red carpet, and lined with wooden tables covered in busts and other artifacts. The walls were white as well, with ornate metal lighting fixtures giving an older feeling to the place. It was still well lit.

"If you'll follow me, sir." said Morgan. "Since this isn't a negotiation session, the President will see you in his office."

"Very well," said Adama. So the President had kept his word. This wasn't all a gambit to force him under their negotiation table. Yet.

They turned a corridor into what Adama assumed was the western part of the building (at least that's what one of the plaques said, presumably for tourist groups).

After reaching what appeared to be an antechamber, Adama saw a single Presidential Security guard, or their Terran equivalent. Adama secretly wondered how they could stand wearing sunglasses all the time, if these were anything like their Colonial counterparts.

But since the President was inside a secure location, he only needed one to be around him, and when Adama was led into the President's office, he remained outside.

"Mr President," said Adama. "I'm Admiral William Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie,_ representing the Twelve Colonies of Kobol."

"I'm President Andrew Warren," said the President. "Sit down, Admiral. We have some things to discuss involving the Russians."

_**Tau Ceti II**_

"What's the deal, Captain?" asked Patterson. He had his helmet in his hands, and he was decked out in digital camouflage fatigues.

"This is our first recce into the afflicted area." said Hollingsworth, hauling his combat knapsack on his back. "Just a simple excursion beyond the quarter klick perimeter."

"Why the Stinger?" asked private Lockwood.

"Because the period we're dealing with is known for having large reptiles, and as you know reptiles are a little tougher than mammals when it comes to armour. If the creatures become hostile I want a way to take 'em out fast."

"By blowing them up with a rocket?" Lockwood asked. "We've got several grenade launchers."

"Rockets have a little more penetrating force. And besides, we're hoping they don't resist. If they do, you sure bet our standard armament will be less effective."

"What about the Colonials?" Patterson asked.

"They're going on the next team. We're going out first. If they get some units down here first, great. If not, then we move out.

"Sounds like a plan." said Patterson. "Who else is coming?"

"Segeant Hammond, Corporal Kowalski, Wellesley, and Moore."

"That should do fine." said Patterson. "When do we move out?"

Hollingsworth took out his rifle and opened the bolt. "As soon as I'm done cleaning this. Pack your things."

Patterson quickly collapsed his multifaceted tent and stowed it away. Along with it he threw his mess kit and extra clips of ammo. He included a first aid kit, and an extra pistol.

After shrugging on his combat vest and making sure the pockets were all holding something, he slung his rifle over his head and clipped his utility belt, making sure his sidearm was secure.

All the other members of the team had done the same, and they reported to Hollingsworth at the edge of Base Camp.

"All right, men." Hollingsworth announced. "We're going to be doing a lot of marching, so drink lots of water and remember your training. It's bright, so use your sun goggles, but don't worry about sunscreen too much."

"You know what we're really wondering, sir." said Kowalski.

Holligsworth nodded. "The animals we'll be encountering are most likely to be reptilian in nature. That type of animal is the one prevalent in the era the anomaly links to. So don't expect your weapons to work the first time. It will take concentrated fire and coordination to bring them down, if we find any that are hostile. Do not fire unless threatened. Make no aggressive moves. I want all you people back here, savvy? No more questions? Alright, let's go!"

Hollingsworth was right about one thing: the heat. It rose off the sand in waves, and although it was dry heat (thankfully) it still got a little toasty.

Patterson sat under a sparse tree and unscrewed his canteen. "How long have we been out here now?"

"Two hours," said Kowalski. "Seen a few neat lizards, though."

"They're somewhat like what we've got on Earth," said Hollingsworth. "An extra pair of limbs does do a lot to make them interesting."

"And the eye couldn't have been good for depth perception."

Patterson laughed. "Not much to see here, though. Desert, sand, scrubs, few, if any clouds."

"Two moons, though." said Wellesley. "Reminds you that we're not in Kansas any more."

"Quite right," said Hollingsworth. "Okay, should we get moving again?"

"You're in charge, skipper," said Kowalski. "Lead the way."

_**Washington, D.C.**_

Adama walked down one of the many streets of Washington, looking at the sky. It had been a long time since he had seen a sky... New Caprica. And that sky hadn't been too pleasant.

If he didn't look too closely, he could swear he was on Caprica. People walked back and forth, cars drove maniacally down the street, some of them honking at each other when the drivers disagreed on whose turn it was to switch lanes. Even the cars were faintly reminiscent of Colonial vehicles, only more streamlined and burning hydrogen instead of gasoline or refined tylium.

Casting a sidelong glance at his secret service escort (two guys in sunglasses and suits, despite the warm weather), Adama crossed the street.

He checked his watch, and saw he had fifteen minutes left. He had asked for some time to explore the city, but hadn't wanted to keep his ship waiting to long. And he had wanted some time to think about the situation with the Russians.

He turned down a side street, starting to head in the general direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. The cars would probably be arriving now, and he didn't want to keep them waiting to long.

He browsed the windows of shops, looking at the merchandise displayed, marveling at the similarities between the products of the two planet. Some of them were genuinely useful gadgets. Some of them were mugs and what must be sports equipment. He passed a bicycle shop, recognizing the general shape.

A strange rising whine distracted him, although he snapped back to reality when one of the escorts roughly shoved him behind a stone bench.

He was protesting when one of the cars exploded in a spectacular fireball.

There were some popping noises too. Adama realized that it was gunfire. The two guards had .45s in their hands, and were scanning the area for the location. Adama saw a flash, and apparently so did the escorts. They opened fire, the roar of the pistols loud in his ear.

One of the assailants was hit, as was one of Adama's escort personnel. Adama reached for the gun and opened fire himself. The gunfire weakened and then stopped.

"They're gone." said Adama, handing the pistol to the remaining guard. The man nodded, and called in for medical and police on his radio.

Captain Wallace massaged his forehead. "Do we have _any_ idea who might've done this?" he asked again.

"We have only one option, but you might not like it." said Gordon, one of the police sergeants under Wallace's jurisdiction. "They call themselves the NKVD, and seem to have ties to Russian interests. However the Russians have no knowledge of them, at least officially."

"Let me guess, you had to go to the Feds on this one, right? That's all I need."

Adama, sitting to the side, said, "They were after me, weren't they?"

"There's nothing else of value there, and that grenade went right over you. If your escort hadn't been on top of their game, you wouldn't be sitting here."

"So it wasn't a car bomb?"

"No, a car bomb explodes differently. This was a grenade fired from a launcher such as the type mounted on rifles. It wasn't rocket propelled, meaning it was silent except for the airflow, which is what you heard."

"I'm familiar with these weapons, we have some similar concepts." said Adama. "When I get back to my ship, I'm going to send your government a list of seven individuals and pictures of them. They are known... criminals who have escaped and could possible be on Earth. They know who I am, and possibly are responsible."

"Thank you, Admiral." said Wallace. "We have some suspected members of the organization here. These four here are responsible for founding the group. We believe them to be homegrown." He slid over a folder containing pictures.

After looking through the file, Adama could only say one thing. "This isn't homegrown. What are the names of these four?"

Wallace, looking surprised, took out a list. "Taniel Arson, Clyde Worthy, Duke Ellis, and Aaron Doral."

Adama nodded. "Not homegrown at all."

_**Raptor 473, SSR**_

Racetrack opened her eyes and groaned, pain shooting through her limbs. The sun was just rising, and the President was still asleep, or unconscious, she couldn't tell.

There was knocking and shouting outside, no doubt about it. That was probably what had woken her up.

"Hello?" she shouted. "In here!"

She peered painfully under the shattered cockpit canopy, trying to get the attention of the rescue party. She pounded her hand on the bulkhead.

"Переедьте от переборки!" shouted one of the men outside.

"What?" she shouted. "I don't speak... that. Try Caprican, or what was it... English, try English!"

There was some understanding outside, when a voice shouted "Get clear from wall!"

She jumped backwards, and heard a blowtorch starting up. They were trying to cut through the hatch.

She watched the flame pierce the metal plates and trace a molten trail through the bulkhead.

"Move away!" the voice shouted again. Racetrack jumped out of the way as the plate was kicked into the compartment. A ladder was then dropped in.

"We have wounded here!" Racetrack called up. An acknowledgment came down through the hole, and Racetrack climbed up the ladder.

The land surrounding the Raptor was bathed in a golden morning light, with mist clinging to everything. An tracked vehicle, probably an armoured personnel carrier, sat at the edge of the swamp so it wouldn't get stuck. The rescue team had set up beside it, and a few soldiers were stowing a welding torch.

"Gut Afternoon." said the man who had been shouting. "Commandant this path." He gestured towards the camp.

Fortunately for her the commandant spoke much better English than the hapless soldier did. "I am Colonel Gorbanova of the NKGB." she said. "You seem to have had a little difficulty on your landing. An investigation is underway. We will get you and your passenger medical attention as soon as possible."

"Can I have a way of informing my ship that we've landed intact?" Racetrack asked.

"_Nichevo._" Gorbanova said. "We'll inform them, you should get some medical attention. What is the frequency for your ship?"

Racetrack gave it to her, and she wrote it down. "We'll contact someone as soon as possible. The medics are in that tent there." She gestured towards the entrance.

After Racetrack had left, Gorbanova copied down the frequency three times, to make sure she didn't lose it, and then turned on her radio. "Base, this is Rescue Mission. No survivors to report, repeat, no survivors to report. Returning to base." She then switched frequencies. "This is Colonel Gorbanova. Have the convoy meet us, we have found some survivors. And I have the radio frequency for their ship, too."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"An attempt on your life..." said Nelson. "Sounds like you've had a busy day."

"I'm getting to old for this," said Adama. "And we've got a bigger problem than just a terrorist attack."

"We just got word from the Russian government. There initial result gives no survivors of the downed Raptor."

Adama grimaced. "Body count?"

"Didn't say. The report was unusually vague. But they were certain that the on-site commander reported no survivors."

"No, our problems are worse than that," said Adama, as he turned down the corridor containing his quarters.

"What could be worse than that?"

"One of the founders of the terrorist group is Aaron Doral, one of the Cylon models we've identified. Apparently Earth has survived because the Cylons have infiltrated it."

"How long have they been around, do you suppose?"

"Almost no time at all, I'd assume." said Adama. "They hadn't a clue where Earth was a month ago, and it took forty years before they attack us."

"In that time they were developing the model. They could've infiltrated us in a matter of weeks, for all we know."

"That may well be true," said Adama, swiping his access card through the reader to unlock his quarters. "I gave all of our intel regarding the Cylon agents to the United States. I haven't told them about the Cylons yet, though. They may try to get rid of us to protect themselves, I wouldn't put it past Warren."

"Adar would've done the same thing. It's a self defense issue." said Nelson.

"The point is, I'm hoping we caught them early enough to not have done any irreparable damage. But if they're stuck founding terrorist groups, clearly the security on Earth is much more secure, or from I've seen, paranoid. It's like they got everything but Martial Law. And from what I hear, the catalyst happened over fifty years ago. They've gotten better from what I've heard it used to be like. They complained about something called the Patriot Act, but it's nothing I'd ever want a government to do."

"We had our own problems." admitted Nelson. "The Cylon Act. That was a mistake."

"They're machines. But you're right, it did touch off a war."

"I think it's time we flew down to Moscow." said Nelson.

"Nope." said Adama. "I'm going to bed. Wake me when it's time."

_**Tau Ceti II**_

"Captain!" hissed Kowalski. "We've got a metallic contact up ahead!"

"What?" Hollingsworth exclaimed. He snatched a pair of binoculars from his vest and focused on the object ahead, making sure to stay concealed behind a rock.

"What the hell is it?" Patterson insisted.

"A ship of some sort. Looks like a troop carrier of some sort, but there aren't any soldiers."

The ship was low, with two small prongs on the front flanking a six-barelled machine-gun or cannon assembly. The rear was also two prongs, flanking the ramp which led into the belly of the machine. It wasn't American, and it wasn't Colonial either.

"Whatever it is, the soldiers guarding it are gone. Unless there are some inside..." Hollingsworth stowed the binoculars and chambered his assault rifle. "Three teams, let's go!" he hissed.

There were sounds of bolts being drawn back and then silence, as three groups of soldiers advanced on the shuttlecraft. They was silence except for the clicking of straps on metal and the crunch of boots on rock.

Two teams flanked the entrance, and quickly spun around to switch into a firing position. The teams flashed thumbs-up to each other: the ship was empty.

"Patterson!" Hollingsworth called. "Get Base Camp on the line, tell 'em what we found. Have Yeager secure the camp."

"Sir, I can't raise Base Camp." said Patterson.

Kowalski walked over, making his rifle safe and slinging over his shoulder. "Static?"

"Nope. Nothing. They're simply not there."

Hollingsworth slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Clearly whatever disembarked from this craft is there already. See if you can get any of the starships on the line, have them start landing troops."

"What about us?" asked Kowalski.

"We're going back right now!"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9**_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

One thing the _Valkyrie_ was not short of were computer terminals. Every corridor, every command post, and all the quarters had them.

So far Tyrol's services had been required only once, during the launch and recovery of the main Vipers squadron. And yet, during all the down time, he had yet to check the archives for information on the Cylon program.

He didn't know why. He kept telling himself that he'd do it. He had Tigh's access code on a slip beside his terminal. And there it stayed.

Cally kept checking on him, asking what was bothering him. He couldn't keep brushing her off ( that was a surefire way to keep her coming back). There was only one way to calm himself down. And that was to check.

He finally picked up the paper, and typed in the command code. The screen instantly brought him to the restricted archives of the _Valkyrie_ digital library:

CYLON HOMEWORLD FASTER-THAN-LIGHT COORDINATES

COLONIAL FLEET DEPLOYMENT

Tyrol had to shake his head at that one. What's the use keeping it classified when there was no fleet to deploy? He continued to look until he found what he was looking for:

CYLON DEVELOPMENT LOGS

A new directory list came up:

TRAINAR INDUSTRIES

DEVELOPMENT

MK1 CYLON

MK2 CYLON

MK5 CYLON

CENTURION 006/007

CENTURION 008

But one of them caught his interest:

PROJECT MIMIC

It turned out to be exactly what he was looking for. The first watermark was fifty years old, predating the first Cylon War. The last date was in the beginning of the conflict.

_Project Mimic is an attempt by Trainar Industries to develop the first androids. As we all know, androids are mechanical constructs designed to mimic the behaviour of Humans. Until this point, the technology hasn't been available, but with the rapid advances made through the Cylon program, we now have the advances we need to attempt such a program..._

Tyrol stared at the screen. The Cylons hadn't come up with the idea themselves. Like so much of their culture and technology they'd simply stolen it from their creators. It could also explain how they could quickly evolve from silvery walking kitchen appliances to bodies that were inseparable from their human counterparts.

He closed the introduction, and opened the construction log. Inside were the details of each model constructed.

_The Mk.I was the first true humanoid Cylon model. We're quite proud of it, although it can get annoying at times (we uploaded a personality based on my own, we have yet to perfect a unique one). We're planning to upload an amalgam of several different personalities to come up with something more unique. And I'm happy to say it ages exactly as a human would._

_The Mk.II was the second attempt, and was even more successful than the first. The personality we uploaded is a unique creation, an improvement over the Mk.I. This one is slightly more authoritative and aggressive, but seems to lack an empathic sense. We're working on that, and it should be ready in the next model. One feature of this model is the the growth rate, as we found a way to accelerate it to maturity faster than the others, before slowing down to a more human rate. Detailed explanations into this follow in the article. We decided not to attempt this again, as I can attest that growing up slowly is hard enough and it might not be wise to subject them to too much mental stress. This being said, the increased aging rate has proved successful biologically, and no damage was done to the subject._

_The Mk.III and Mk.IV were both based on similar patterns, but we were overjoyed to discover that they have grown independently of each other! They look nothing alike! We may be on the verge of artificial human life! The models we've created so far are as much a human as I am, albeit engineered. In fact, there's nothing to qualify them as Cylons at all. The painstaking work is paying off! I can just imagine my paycheck next month..._

Tyrol sat back in shock. He was a Cylon, but not a Cylon... He was created by the Colonials to be as human as inhumanly possible. He also knew that he was a Mk.III or IV. Anders was probably the other one.

_The Mk.V is a first... A female! We're almost celebrating here, as this is a departure from the previous models. The pattern used for this model is only vaguely based on the previous models, and..._

He stopped reading, and checked the directory. There were no more models after that.

Tyrol rubbed his eyes. No wonder the Cylons didn't talk about the Five. They were imperfect human constructs, and served only as the basis for the more advanced models the Cylons now used. They were probably embarrassed to admit that they derived from the Five at all.

The last article was the most interesting. It was dated in the early days of the Cylon War.

_The Cylons are attacking the compound again, and the Forces representatives are evacuating us to Alpha Site. The humanoid Cylons, up to this point, have remained mostly ignorant of what really is happening, Unfortunately, we had to tell them yesterday after a raid by Cylons forces that saw Remus, the Mk.I, kidnapped. So we're leaving the building now, and taking three of the models with us. They're about four years old now, except for the Mk.II. He actually wanted to fight! We had Admiral Hastings grant him a commission as a crewman in the Fleet under the pseudonym Saul Tigh (that was my idea, actually). He's about eighteen years old now, and can probably handle the workloads. We're all so proud of our boy... We're moving out now. This will probably be the last recording of the project. I hope it survives to be restarted (if this war ever ends). END RECORDING_

Tyrol could only slouch back in his seat. One weight had been lifted and replaced with another. There wasn't much chance of hidden programming to activate him. And there was only one of him, so no identical twin could pop up suddenly.

But it was confirmed. He was still a construct, a creation. Something that crawled out of a test-tube on Caprica. He wasn't human.

"But I'll be damned if that stops me..." he muttered, turning off the computer.

_**Tau Ceti II**_

They were halfway back to Base Camp, and marching quickly. The effort was wearing all of them down, and the pace had slowed since leaving the unknown craft.

"C'mon, skipper, we gotta take five!" Kowalski insisted. "We won't be much good if we're too tired to stand when we get there."

"Fine." Hollingsworth said. "Five minutes. We leave after that."

There were sighs of relief as the team dropped to the sand.

"Patterson!" Hollingsworth called. "Get the battlestar _Agrippa_ on the wireless. Maybe they can identify the ship we saw."

"Yes, sir." Patterson said. He slung down the radio from his back and pulled out the handset. "Battlestar _Agrippa,_ this is _Activity_ team. _Agrippa,_ this is _Activity_ team on the surface of Bajor, come in."

"_Activity team, this is _Agrippa,_ what can I do for you?"_

"We've found a small vessel down here, apparently empty." He proceeded to describe the craft in detail.

There was silence on the other end. "_Team, it might be premature, but we believe the craft to be a Cylon Heavy Raider."_

"What's that? What's a Cylon?"

"_Have you lost communication with your base camp? We can't reach them. We originally thought they had communications difficulty, but after this report and your previous request for troops we believe that a Cylon force has landed on the planet. We're still manning the Raptors. We'll have reinforcements there in twenty minutes."_

"Thanks, _Agrippa,_ over and out." Patterson turned off the radio.

"They identify it?" Hollingsworth asked.

"Yes, sir. They called it a Heavy Raider, affiliated with some country called the Cylons. They wouldn't say who they were, though, but they believe Base Camp is under attack."

"An opinion I'm inclined to agree with." said Hollingsworth.

"Hey, what was that?" asked Kowalski tilting his head.

"What was..." Then Patterson heard a crunch.

"Rifles to the ready... said Hollingsworth. "It might be a Cylon soldier."

Crouching in a ready position, running on mostly adrenalin after the marching, the team retreated backwards, making extra sure they had all their gear.

Suddenly a large reptile reared up from behind a rock face, standing on two legs while holding four off the ground, two of them arms, or arm-like. It settles down onto four of its six limbs, two of them still help up. It seemed to be approaching them.

"Ready..." said Hollingsworth.

"Is that what we were looking for?" Patterson asked.

"No, I'm quite sure that's native," hissed Hollingsworth. "I've never seen anything like it."

It was muscular, that was certain. The mouth contained razor sharp teeth, though the mouth itself wasn't large compared to the body. The upraised arms had lethal talons.

"Orders?" Patterson asked.

"Ready the grenade launcher," Hollingsworth instructed. "If it attacks, fire."

"Yes, sir," said Kowalski, loading the electromagnetic launcher.

The creature stood, growling quietly. It didn't know what to make of the team, as it had never seen any creatures as organized or close together.

"Another one?" Patterson muttered, as he heard a low growl from the ridge above them. The team flattened themselves against the rock face.

"No, no..." said Kowalski. "Different sound entirely."

The question was answered when another giant shape leapt off the rock face, heading straight for the first creature. Only this one was a more familiar shape, with four legs and a snout not unlike a large dog, only more robust. The jaws of the new creature went straight for the neck of the six-legged beast.

"They don't look anything like each other!" Patterson shouted as the team used the distraction to leap around behind the rock face to observe.

"Brialliant, Holmes," said Hollingsworth. But you're right. It's not native to this planet."

"What, is it?" asked Kowalski. "It looks like a big weird dog."

"It's not a mammal, or a reptile... It's something else entirely." said Hollingsworth. "Nothing like it has been seen on Earth for millions of years. This one is from the Permian."

"What!?" Patterson burst out. "This thing came from Earth through the anomaly?"

"It's a gorgonopsid, maybe an _Inostrancevia_." said Hollingsworth. "I'd have to check on our database. But, it's what we came to find. We found it."

"So this is a safari again, huh?" Kowalski muttered. "I suppose it's a break."

"From walking?" said Patterson. "I'm not complaining."

Meanwhile, the Terran predator was having the better of the Tau Ceti native. It was just as large, but faster, and outmaneuvered the hapless alien beast again and again. Soon the Tau Ceti native was losing too much blood to stay in the fight, and was sinking to the ground, defeated.

"Time to go," said Hollingsworth after snapping a picture of the Gorgonopsid. "We've worse things than ROUS to worry about."

"What?" Kowalski asked.

Hollingsworth winked. "Reptiles of unusual size."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

_"Pass the word for Admiral Adama. Admiral Adama, contact CIC."_

Adama sighed and put down his book. Another novelty of the new battlegroup was the amount of new reading material they brought. He hauled himself out of his armchair and walked over to his desk. "Adama. What is it?"

"_There's a call for you on the line,"_ said Gaeta. "_I think it's General Secretary Beria."_

"Has she said what she wants?" Adama asked. "Does this to do with negotiation?"

"_I don't believe so, sir. She called it urgent though."_

"Put her through." Adama ordered. He waited while the line was reconnected. "Madam President," he said.

"_Admiral Adama. I presume you're wondering why I've called you."_

"You could say that." said Adama.

"_This concerns the crash of your Raptor. I had a salvage team at the wreckage, and there don't appear to be any bodies."_

"What are you saying?" Adama asked, sitting up.

"_Either they are dead and someone has taken them, or they were alive and someone got to them before we did. My advisors and I are of the opinion that the initial recovery team was... Compromised, in some way."_

"What the hell do you mean, 'compromised'?" Adama hissed. "Are you saying that my crew could be alive and in custody?"

"_That is exactly what I'm saying."_ said Beria. "_We suspect Chechnyan rebels, but this would be difficult for them to organize in such short notice."_

"I see," said Adama. "And I'm guessing no one has claimed responsibility."

"_As far as we know."_ said Beria. "_I assure you, Admiral, we are doing the best we can."_

"I hope so." said Adama. "This would be a black mark on your petition for negotiation for our settlement and technology."

"_I understand, Admiral."_ said Beria. "_I remind you that we are doing the best we can."_

"I only hope your best is enough," said Adama. "Is that all?"

"_I believe so, Admiral."_ said Beria. The connection was broken.

Adama had only just put the phone back when it buzzed again. "What is it?" he asked wearily.

"_News from the Americans on the capture of the Cylon agents. They've captured as many sympathizers as they can, and are holding them in detention. They expect to get information as to the whereabouts of Doral."_

"So you're saying they've gotten essentially nowhere..." Adama rubbed his eyes. "Very well." He replaced the phone for the second time, and picked up his book again. It was hard to focus on it.

_**Strikestar Spitfire**_

Lee Adama put down his book and stretched out on his cot. He'd been in orbit for several days now, waiting for the _Valkyrie_ to return with news. But it was taking much longer than he'd thought. Of course he'd always expected to appear in orbit of Earth with a home and family waiting for him but he knew deep down that it wouldn't be that easy. At least he told himself that, but he knew he'd still be disappointed, and he was.

"_Commander Adama, contact CIC asap. Pass the word for Commander Adama."_

Apollo sighed and reached for the phone. His quarters were small compared to what a full sized battlestar (_like Pegasus,_ he often thought), and he often found things within a stride or two of where he sat.

"CO, what is it?" he asked.

"_We have a situation on the surface of Bajor,_" said the officer on duty, McClane. "_And expeditionary team reported encountering what we believe to be a Cylon Heavy Raider, and contact has been lost with the _Activity's_ Base Camp."_

"Understood. What action has been taken?" Apollo was sitting upright now.

"_Marines from the _Odyssey _are preparing to depart to the surface. We're at condition two in case the Cylons jump in."_

"Coordinate any battle plans with the _Activity._ Keep a line with the flagship open."

"_Aye, sir"_

Apollo replaced the phone. A Cylon ship could mean anything from a recce patrol to an armed beachhead. It was impossible to say at this point. Either way, their secret was now out.

He picked up the phone again. "This is the CO. Patch me through to _Agrippa."_

He waited until he heard Admiral Greer on the other end. "Admiral, I've just been alerted to the Cylon presence on Bajor."

"_So have I, Commander. I've got every commander in 41 and _Galactica_ all over my ass trying find out what to do. The Terrans fortunately have an armed expedition, but we're sending down reinforcements."_

"What do you think happened to the camp?"

"_Odds are it was taken by surprise. They were expecting large animals, not trained comabat machines. They probably had a smaller sentry than they would if they were expecting actual combat. I'd say they were caught with their pants down. Cylons aren't stupid: they know what they are doing."_

"I'll have two Raptors of Marines ready in ten minutes."

"_Keep them on standby. We don't want too many boots on the ground there. Things might get dicey."_

"Understood. _Spitfire_ out."

_**Tau Ceti II**_

Kowalski and Patterson dove for the ground, peering through field glasses at the camp. There were few bodies, but no one alive, either. What movement they did see was mechanical.

"What the hell are those things?" Patterson muttered.

"They look like those armoured combat suits for the army. But completely mechanical. And big."

"I can see that!"

Patterson dug out his radio. "Skipper, we've got a visual on Base Camp. The anomaly's unguarded and the sensor grid is offline. I see five casualties, but that's all."

_"It's possible they abandoned the camp. We're in position now. Colonial air support is on their way. Wait five. When you see the signal, open fire."_

"Understood." said Patterson. "Team two out."

"Five minutes, huh?" Kowalski mused. "Better than I thought."

A large boom cut the silence. "Those are aircraft turbines, they'll be here sooner than we thought." said Kowalski. "Why couldn't the Air Force be so punctual?"

Sure enough, two of the stubby beige shuttlecraft came screaming out of the air alongside three sleek interceptors. The mechanized soldiers didn't even bother running for cover. They just raised their forearms and opened up with rapid-fire automatics.

"NOW!" Patterson hissed and charged forward with Kowalski over the ridge. An unguided rocket shrieked from the other ridge where Hollingsworth and his team were, along with several rocket-powered grenades. Two missiles from the escort fighters also zeroed in on the Cylons. Three of the combat robots were vaporized, while two more were blown off their feet.

Patterson and Kowalski charged down the hill while Hollingsworth and his team came from the other side of the camp. At the same time Colonial Marines were discharged from the landed Raptors, the black combat uniforms looking very uncomfortable and painfully visible in the bright sun.

"How many left?" Patterson shouted over the gunfire.

"I read three metallic signatures!" Kowalski returned, checking his scanner. He squeezed off another shot at a glint of metal. "Move up!"

The two of them dodged closer to the camp, avoiding automatic fire. One of the Colonial fighter craft was suddenly hit by a Cylon missile, blowing a stabilizer off and sending it plunging to the ground. The pilot shot straight up into the sky, before the parachute opened. That left two fighters.

"Shame they aren't jump jets," Patterson said. "They could take these bastards out for us."

The Colonial soldiers seemed to have more smaller firearms than the American men. But they were getting in a lot closer, meaning the smaller caliber rounds could be more effective.

"We gotta get closer!" Kowalski hissed.

A clank behind them made them jump as if electrocuted. Kowalski tried to shove a grenade into the launcher attached to the barrel of his rifle. They spun around, diving behind a rock, but couldn't see the Cylon.

The clanking of the combat robot made them spin around again: it was behind them. It was standing with an arm upraised, and extended fearsome metal fingers that looked like they could rip flesh.

A thunderous roar distracted it, and the next thing Patterson knew a Gorgonopsid streaked at the Cylon, knocking it off its feet. The hapless machine was completely baffled, as nothing like the prehistoric Terran predator had ever been entered into its programming, and it was having to write new countermeasures on the spot.

Kowalski took advantage of the lull to arm the launcher. The Gorgonopsid quickly discovered the metal construction of the Cylon, despite having damaged the Cylon horribly with its massive jaws. It leapt backwards, suddenly uninterested in the metal soldier, and Kowalski destroyed the remnants of the Cylon seconds later with a grenade. The Gorgonopsid reared away from the explosion and fled, running through the camp and back through the anomaly, into the Permian.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Sir!" Gaeta said as Adama entered CIC. "I think you ought to see this."

"What is it?" Adama asked, looking at the transparency on the plot table.

"This is the Terran asteroid belt." Gaeta pointed at the map. "I have marked various American mining installations, but there are several bases we can't identify."

"Elaborate," Adama ordered.

"Well, all but one of these bases are around smaller asteroids, less dense ones that probably don't have the mass to merit large scale mining. We've also detected traces of nuclear radiation. This does not seem to be active, like an atomic motor or power plant, more like a latent nuclear bomb, only I can't see any point to demolishing smaller asteroids."

"You said all but one. What's the other one?"

"It seems to be a space station of some sort, not attached to any of the asteroids but using them for protection." Gaeta unrolled another map. "The Americans I contacted on the nearest space station were genuinely unaware of its purpose. All they will acknowledge is that it appears to be Canadian in origin."

"Canadians? The same country Captain Thrace crashed in?"

"Affirmative, sir, but we haven't sent any Raptors out that way. Should I order a recon mission?"

"Yes, but do it quietly. If they even have the possibility of being detected, abort the mission. I don't want to alienate the Terrans just yet."

A shrill beeping pierced the low buzz of CIC, and the DRADIS console started relaying data.

"Sir, a Raptor just jumped into range," reported Nelson. "Transponder codes say it's from the dreadnought _Odyssey._"

"_Odyssey?_" Gaeta mumbled.

"Something's wrong." said Adama, picking up the handset. "Patch them through."

"You're on," Hoshi said, without looking away from his console.

"This is Admiral Adama," Adama said into the phone. "What's going on?"

"_This is Captain Williams of the _Odyssey. _Admiral, the Cylons have attacked Tau Ceti."_

Adama gripped the handset hard enough to make his knuckles white. They were running out of time.

He lowered the handset and stared at Gaeta. "Get me the General Secretary of the United Nations. That's the only way we'll get everyone in the same room, and if we ever needed to, now's the time."

"Uh, sir, that might be difficult seeing as New York City is currently showing a standard time of 2:30am..."

Adama glared at him. "Then wake him!"

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10**_

_**Tau Ceti II**_

"What a mess," muttered Kowalski. Many of the tents were torn by bullets. Much of the infrastructure was intact, but the hastily dug entrenchments where the former occupants, caught off guard, had had their stand were heavily damaged. There were bodies, but it was clear some of them had escaped. They would find them later, with aerial searches.

"We took a beating, no two ways about it," said Hollingsworth. "We may have to abandon Base Camp until the _Shackleton_ arrives."

"We can ferry up materiel and crew," said the main Raptor pilot, Sharon Agathon. "The _Activity_ is on the other side of the planet at the moment."

"That should be fine. Can we get some more people down here to help take this all down? Shouldn't take more than a few hours, it's pretty modular."

"Alright." said Athena. "I'll send a call up to _Galactica."_

"Hey!" called a voice from the rock face. A bedraggled pilot dragging a helmet and bundled up parachute limped over the ridge. "I suppose you just forgot about me, huh?"

Athena laughed. "Sorry, Starbuck, but you're like the last person I'd expect to see shot down. By a handheld, too!"

"Yeah, a few more assumptions like that," she hissed, limping closer to the party, "And I really _would_ be dead! Brilliant..."

"Hurt your leg?"

"Same one as before, dammit!" she growled, dropping to the sand like a ton of bricks. "Not broken though, just bruised a muscle. Still hurts like hell."

"We'll get you up in orbit when we ferry the Terrans back," said Athena. "Speaking of which, did any of you see that thing?"

Patterson blinked blankly. "What thing?"

"The giant animal. It attacked one of the Centurions."

"Oh, that..." Patterson scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Yeah, that's kinda our fault. We opened this anomaly thing with an experimental FTL drive a while back, and tore space apart in some areas. This is one of them. Things come through time, it's from our past."

"You must've got the radioms wrong." said Athena.

"What?" Kowalski looked completely blank.

"Clearly you never took FTL theory." Athena smirked. "I had to, basic flight. I was pretty good at it. At least I remember I was."

Starbuck snorted. "Of course you would've been, if you'd taken it. You're more efficient than a calculator. I hated basic flight, myself."

"Did half of it in hack, as I recall," Athena mumbled. She looked at Starbuck and both of them burst out laughing, as Kowalski and Patterson looked on blankly.

"Inside joke," Kowalski muttered. "Must be."

_**Washington, D.C, United States**_

In a city of traditionally early risers, Andrew Warren was one of the last to wake up. Usually, he was up late at night working on whatever happened to need doing, whether it was reviewing speeches with his adjutants or going over budgetary complaints and industrial negotiating, and therefore could easily go until nine o'clock without rising. This was one of the few nights he had gotten to bed at a reasonably decent hour, but as luck would have it a powerful thunderstorm had woken him up at four in the morning, and he could do absolutely nothing to return to the land of nod.

So instead, yawning like a possessed man, he had to content himself to watching television on his new ultra-high definition 46-inch plasma monitor. Usually he found himself turning down the quality slightly, because he found that the sharpness of the screen could almost be painful. Some people swore by ultra-high definition, but others preferred the older high definition.

_"...and the situation remains the same as it has for the last ten years. Now, on to other news, Bill Blakeney is approaching Buck Bokai's consecutive hit streak, and is only three games away from breaking the record of 59 games! Blakeney and the Blue Jays are advancing to play the Red Sox tomorrow night in Toronto. In hockey, the Ottawa Senators..."_

Warren yawned again, and then blinked as a bright flash of lightning split the air, the thunder rolling in five seconds later. He sighed and took a sip of an open root beer sitting on a massive stack of National Geographic magazines sitting on the table beside him. The newspaper, brought up by White House attendants working what was still the graveyard shift, sat unopened on the coffee table. He was too tired to assimilate any information, or at least he felt that way.

_"... And once again we turn to Valkyrie Watch, our five minutes where we have a look at the goings on in orbit. And here with us is Paul Wells, Paul, welcome."_

_"Hey Brenda."_

_"So what have we got today?"_

_"We've got action aplenty! Admiral William Adama has opened communication with the General Secretary of the United Nations, and many would say that it's about time too. What they have been discussing is as yet unknown, but it sure sounds important! As well, several of their "Raptor" shuttlecraft have been dispatched into the Asteroid Belt, probably to inspect the mining sites. Who knows what they might be thinking?"_

_"Sounds like something's going on up there,"_

_"Oh, I'd say so. Don't forget to look at the tracking radar on our website, "www54.cnn.usa/valkyrietracker/". And tomorrow at this time we're actually going to have an interview with one of the _Valkyrie's_ crewmembers, and then we'll have a picture of what life on a Colonial spacecraft is really like..."_

Warren was by this point staring at the screen. He'd known about the (multiple) shows that the news channels had, but that they would have news before he did was absurd. Then he looked at the clock, and figured it out. They'd probably done it sometime in the night, and the news channels were always leaping on things like vultures. Besides, if there was anything seriously important, he would've been...

The phone rang.

Warren took another sip of root beer and shook his head. "This is Andrew Warren speaking."

"_Mr. President, we have received an urgent summons from the United Nations."_

"Urgent? What reasons do they give?"

"_Emergency, sir. This is a matter of planetary security."_

That was an expression Andrew Warren had never heard in his life. And it wasn't something he could ignore, either.

_**Moscow, Second Soviet Republic**_

It was early in the afternoon, but Beria still thought it was hotter than it had any business being. Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, she walked off the balcony into the mercifully air conditioned office. She sighed and sat down, looking at the stack of paperwork in front of her. Most of it consisted of production and distribution reports, information on how the supplies produced by the factories were circulating to the people who needed them most. One of the greatest problems with post-Soviet Russia had been the vast size of the country, and how many people outside of the cities faced difficult times when the old communists supply system had collapsed after the fall of the First Soviet Union. Now, with a more organized government in control of the country, supplies were rationed out accordingly, placing the SSR's needs above the needs of the world. It had resulted in drastically reduced exports, but Russia had been in shambled for so long something had to be done. After forty years of the SSR, Russia was back on her feet, and catching up to the United States.

"_Madam President."_

Startled by her speakerphone, she activated the two-way conversation with her adjutant. "Yes, Chekov, what is it? Any news on the missing Colonials?"

"_No, Madam President. We have just received an urgent summons from the United Nations, urging us to attend an emergency meeting."_

"Very well, when will this meeting be, next week?"

"_No, Madam President, it is tomorrow."_

"This is very short notice, especially considering that we must fly to America." she said calmly, restraining herself from blurting out "_Are they serious?!"_. She managed it, as she always did, and not a muscle twitched on her impassive face, solid even though she was alone.

"_I have a helicopter on standby if you wish to attend."_

"One thing first: What is the emergency?"

"_I believe the message only stated that it was a matter of Planetary Security. The American news channels are covering the subject more than our own, but we believe it is the result of a call made to the General Secretary by Admiral Adama this morning."_

"Have the helicopter here as soon as possible. Is that all?"

_"Yes, Madam President"_

"Very well." she said, switching off her speakerphone. Once the connection was broken, she allowed herself to relax, something no foreign diplomat or Party official would ever see. She should have expected, or at the very least assumed, that a matter as unique as Planetary Security wouldn't be broached (or coined) by anyone other than a Colonial, and if there was a Colonial in that position it was Adama. All thoughts of settlement seemed to have gone out the window now.

But who, or what, was powerful enough and dangerous enough to threaten Earth? And how come their appearance was so soon after the arrival of the _Valkyrie?_

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

"Attention, everyone, could I have you attention please."

Sitting in _Agrippa's_ wardroom were the commanders of every warship in the sector. Most of them were from Greer's own battlegroup, but Colonels Tigh and Naslund were attached to independent ships.

"The Raptor we sent to _Valkyrie_ came back fifteen minutes ago, and the news we have received from Earth, while not bad, hasn't exactly been encouraging, either."

"What's the holdup, Admiral?" Commander Adama asked.

"Put simply, the Terrans aren't thrilled to have forty five thousand refugees settle down on their planet. The bickering has been so bad they haven't even been able to state their requests, let alone negotiate a settlement."

Naslund nodded. "When I left, forty years ago, there was some tension between the United States and Russia, especially in light of the FTL experiment and the ongoing civil war. I assume the Russians have swung one way or another by now."

Greer took another look at the report, and nodded. "According to this, one of the countries we're dealing with is the Second Soviet Republic. It says here that the country itself is only about forty years old, so that's consistent with your observation." He poured himself a cup of coffee, a pot of which was sitting on the table, and leaned back again. "The United States has been hindering us, mostly to prevent us from negotiating with the SSR, and to a lesser extent, China as well. What you may not know, is that our President's Raptor, upon departing _Valkyrie,_ was targeted by a Terran orbital satellite, and shot down over Chechnya. This satellite is Russian, but was activated by an unknown party who naturally does not want to show themselves for fear of retaliation on our part."

"They should be afraid, all right," growled Tigh. "What's the President's condition?" He shot a glance at Naslund, who was looking slightly shocked at the turn of events back home. His mental picture of an America that was open to anyone and everyone had clearly been dealt a serious blow. Having the President of the Colonies shot down only made things worse, though at least the US wasn't responsible. They couldn't be responsible.

"At present, Admiral Adama is conducting negotiations as best he can. Unfortunately, the Cylon incursion of Bajor has forced him to take extreme measures. He has contacted the closest thing to a planetary administration Earth possesses, and will soon be briefing them on the Cylon threat."

"So what do we do?" asked Commander Matthias, CO of the _Odyssey._

"All we can do, for now, is hang tight here. We're going to start sending regular shuttle runs, at least once every day. If the Cylons decide to hit us, we're going to have to hightail it to Earth fast. They have a pretty decent defense network of Orbital Weapon Platforms, and a minor starfleet of about nine ships. Unfortunately these ships a mostly small sublight in-system cruisers. The Americans have two big ships, the _Sentinal,_ and the _Prometheus._ The Canadians also have one _Prometheus-_class ship, the _Aurora, _donated by the Americans.

"What are they like with regards to weaponry? Will they be able to hold off a sustained Cylon assault?"

"Unlikely. They've only recently began putting weapons in space, and their tactics are still relatively untested." Greer flipped the page of his clipboard. "Something called the Space Preservation Treaty. After the first sublight starship, the _Enterprise,_ it wasn't long before weapons were placed in orbit."

"Then we're screwed," said Tigh. "What happens when we run out of battlestars? The Terrans don't seem capable of taking care of themselves for very long."

Greer consulted his report again. "The Terrans do have a highly developed surface defense system. They have an impressive array of air forces, and if we could get them to cooperate, I'm sure they could give the Cylons a reason to stop and think. They have nuclear missile submarines which could do heavy damage to Cylon forces."

"And they also appear to have bases in the belt of asteroids surrounding the orbit of the fourth planet." said Apollo.

"I still believe the Terrans' best chance depends on how fast we can deploy over there. The Cylons should still be unaware the _Galactica_ has run into BSG-41, and that could prove crucial. We also know the location of the Cylon homeworld, something they don't expect us to know. We could launch a pre-emptive strike."

"Against the Cylons?" one of the commanders, Reynolds, blurted out. "I can think of nicer ways to commit suicide."

"It's only a last resort."

"Not very pre-emptive then, is it?" Tigh pointed out.

"Okay, so an assault is off the table." Greer admitted. "But we've been waging a defensive war too long."

"Are you sure it's wise to attack a superior foe with only small force?" asked Naslund.

"No, but if we have to, we have the location of their centre of operations."

"We can't do much, considering the forces we have. The Cylons must have over a hundred ships by now, maybe even five hundred. We can't repel a force of that magnitude."

Greer dropped the clipboard on the desk with a bang. "With a defeatist attitude like that, Commander Farragut, we're not going to get much of anything done. But, by the gods, we're going to give them a bloody nose!"

Farragut and several other commanders sighed, but nodded as well.

Greer was interrupted as one of his adjutants entered the room. "Sir, Pri-Fly reports communications difficulties with incoming flights."

"Which flights?" Greer asked.

"Flights returning from Bajor. We're having difficulties bringing them in, there's too much interference. It could be jamming."

"Jamming? How can they be jamming us if..." Greer trailed off. "Sound general quarters! Set condition one throughout the entire fleet! Prepare to leave orbit as soon as it becomes possible."

Everyone in the room scrambled to get out as fast as they could.

_**United Nations General Assembly, New York, United States**_

Adama stepped through the entrance at the rear of the hall and stopped in his tracks. Every country had one or two representatives, and that resulted in large gathering of chairs and tables, in a giant semi-circular hall filled with people. The Colonies didn't have that many independent bodies of authority, and as such had nothing on this scale outside of music halls and movie theatres. With only twelve colonies, anything larger was an indulgence. But on this planet somehow dozens, maybe even hundreds of nations coexisted.

The hall burst into polite applause as he walked down the aisle. He saw many people casting curious stares his way, still unwilling to believe he was in fact from another world.

The General Secretary introduced him, and once again polite applause filled the building.

"Admiral Adama, you have requested an emergency session of the United Nations. I am pleased to answer with a nearly full chamber, but we are all anxious to hear your reasoning for this unscheduled meeting."

Adama nodded as he sat down at the front of the chamber. "I was led to understand that the 'Security Council' would be overseeing this."

The General Secretary, Mordechai Lebonitz, leaned down towards Adama's position. "The Security Council has never had to deal with a matter of planetary security before." he whispered. "I thought it wise to call the whole assembly."

"I see," said Adama.

Lebonitz rose to his microphone again. "Silence, please, while Admiral Adama addresses the assembly."

Adama cleared his throat. "This may be difficult for many of you to understand, or believe, but yesterday we received word of a raid on the planet of Tau Ceti II. You should understand that this planet was recently contacted and colonized by members of the United States Air and Space Force aboard the USS _Activity,_ launched forty years ago. This attack was committed by a race known as the Cylons."

"An actual alien species this time?" came a voice from the back.

"No. They are a creation of mankind. Us. We developed them long after this planet had been colonized, back on our homeworlds. They are a mechanical construct, and have one purpose: To destroy or control all humans."

"Why does this involve us? We've never done anything to them." This was the representative from Australia.

"If we are not ready for a direct assault, when it comes we will be completely wiped out." Adama insisted. He could already see that he was fighting an uphill battle against skeptics.

"Admiral, You make it sound like an attack is inevitable. Why is that? And why is it happening so soon after your arrival?"

Adama looked to see President Beria. And she had a point, he had to give her that. "It is not because of our arrival that you may be attacked. It is because of our arrival that you have found out about an attack before it happened. In fact, there are Cylons already among us."

"You said they were mechanical constructs," President Warren stated. "We'd notice them."

"I'm afraid not," Adama sighed. "Cylons have adopted a human form. They look like us now."

This started excited buzzing in the rows. Lebonitz waved for order. "Excuse me, let the Admiral continue."

"Thank you, General Secretary." Adama took a deep breath. "We have compiled a list of known Cylon agents, and are willing to pass it out to all interested governments and INTERPOL."

"That's very generous of you, Admiral, but what prevented you from saying any of this when you first arrived?"

Adama was silent, for he could not come up with a reason. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it wouldn't have made any difference-"

"No, but it could've gone a long way to a more trusting relationship, don't you agree?"

"Just like blasting one of our Raptors out of the sky and kidnapping the crew!?" Adama pounded his fist on the desk. "That would go a long way to a more _trusting_ relationship!"

"Calm yourself, please, Admiral." said Lebowitz. "The representative has a point."

"It wouldn't have changed _anything!"_ Adama insisted. "Whether or not we can start throwing blame at each other now doesn't matter anymore. What does matter, is that we have an enemy on our doorstep."

"An enemy of your creation," Beria pointed out.

"They're here now. And they're why we're here now. They completely destroyed our homes. All twelve planets were sterilized. Billions of people were killed. And unless you can put away your petty bickering and skepticism this planet will fall like they did."

"We're more than capable of defending ourselves." said Warren. "It would take a significant force to make any sort of impact."

"And yet my ship completely outmaneuvered yours! We appeared without warning and sent your alarm systems into diagnostic modes because they didn't believe what they were seeing! We're one ship! Now imagine dozens, hundreds of ships like that! And they won't stop at a show of force. We have countermeasures. We have a fleet at Tau Ceti we can bring to defend Earth for a little longer. We know how the Cylons fight. And they will fight. You must be ready for them."

"If the Cylons are really this big of a threat, shouldn't we at least go to a higher state of readiness?" Warren suggested. "Bring this fleet from Tau Ceti just in case they do come."

"There is one more thing you must do. The Cylons are experts at hacking computer networks. If any of your armed forces rely on computerization to function, you must bring them to manual control, or firewall them as best you can."

Warren almost choked with indignation. "A majority of our technology relies on networks and computers. That could leave us defenseless!"

"Exactly. It would leave you defenseless. The Colonial fleet at one point had hundreds of battlestars, myriads of support ships. Every single one the Cylons found were shut down and obliterated. The only ones that survived had their networks offline or weren't constructed with any. There are now less than fifteen warships of the Colonial fleet remaining. Your ships are vulnerable."

"We'll take the appropriate precautions and firewall all of our transceivers." said Warren.

"We will do the same," admitted Beria. "Of course we hope that nothing will happen."

"Do you have any more warnings the international community should be aware of, Admiral?"

"Not at this time, sir. I do believe that time is of the essence, and the longer we delay the more vulnerable we will be. We're on borrowed time, and the clock's ticking."

_**SSR, Unknown Location**_

"I assume the President will get medical treatment, of course." said Racetrack.

"Of course," said Gorbunova. "It's in all our interests."

"So where are we?" asked Racetrack.

"We're approaching Moscow. But for now we're staying at this military base while the convoy refuels."

"I see." said Racetrack. "Am I not allowed to move around until then?"

"It's for your own good, trust me."

"I'll have to take your word on that." said Racetrack. "This place looks like a dump."

"Most military bases in these parts do. They are not used very much."

"So then why bring me here? Why not to a newer base?"

"This route is faster."

"But if they aren't being used, why is there fuel here, why is..."

"That's enough questions for now." said Gorbunova. "We are here, we are here. Complaining won't change anything."

Racetrack folded her arms across her chest as Gorbunova left the shack. This was becoming more and more insufferable as time went on. Her rescuers wouldn't tell her where she was. They wouldn't tell her why she was where she was and they wouldn't say when they were leaving again, or when they'd get to Moscow at all. Every time she asked she got a runaround or a vague answer.

The murmur of voices caught her attention. She leaned against the wall trying to get any information at all out of the noise.

"_...starting to ask questions. But they shouldn't be any problem. Now that they're out of the way, would you like to finalize our agreement?"_

_"Of course, Colonel. Is Gromyko in full agreement with this course of action?"_

_"Yes, he is. Once this is complete, what will happen with the prisoners?"_

_"They will be disposed of..."_

Racetrack leapt back from the wall. It wasn't for her own good to be locked up anymore, that was for sure. She couldn't leave the President, but she didn't have much choice. In a panic, she checked the rear corner of the shack. Sure enough, there was a plank loose. She pulled on it, really straining her back, and was surprised when it popped right off. There was barely enough room to squeeze through, but her desperation made her forget about the discomfort. She had to get away, get away.

But she had barely stood up when she walked straight into yet another copy of Aaron Doral. This one was wearing a Russian military uniform.

Then it hit her. What was he doing here?

She thought fast, swinging at his jaw, but he was faster, ducking out of the way and sending her sprawling to the ground. "You're not supposed to be out here," he said.

"Am I? Well frak you too..." she hissed, scrabbling to get to her feet.

"Such courage." he said non-chalantly. "You know, Lieutenant, you should feel privileged. Because you just walked into the middle of a historic negotiation."

"What?" Racetrack peered behind Doral, to see Gorbunova. "Do you know who this is?" she asked, expecting to get a false name or identity.

"His name is Aaron Doral." said Gorbunova. "I thought you two would've knew each other already by now."

"_What?"_ Racetrack gasped, the world spinning out of focus into a terrible reality. Gorbunova seemed to know _what_ Doral was...

"You see it, don't you?" said Doral. "This historic moment is the signing of a new alliance between the Second Soviet Republic and the Cylons." Doral winked. "Changes everything, doesn't it?"


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11**_

_**Washington D.C., United States**_

"Admiral Adama, come in," said Warren, standing over his coffee table in the middle of the Oval Office. Beside him was a member of the American military, most likely a high-ranking general. Adama couldn't tell what the stars on his uniform meant, but they were probably rank insignia of some sort.

"What can I do for you, Mr. President?" Adama asked as the door was closed behind him.

"Over the last few hours we have been getting some strange radar patterns over Russia." said Warren. "Aircraft appearing and disappearing. We've also gotten a single satellite image of one of the craft that disappeared. Unfortunately it was more by chance than by design, so we don't have any more at this time. I want your opinion on this image, see if you can spot anything."

The door to the Office then opened unexpectedly, and one of the secretaries poked her head in. "Mr. President, there's been a disturbance in Russia. Something's happening on CNN."

"Thank you, Connie," said Warren as the door closed. "Might be related to the odd radar pictures." He picked up a small, black object that easily fit in his hand. The flat surface of the object, when activated, turned out to be a colourful, user-configurable touch screen. It seemed to be a television remote, for he then used the device to activate a television monitor hanging on the wall in place of a picture. Instantly, in amazing clarity, was an announcer trying desperately to remain professional while briefing the country on whatever was happening. BREAKING NEWS flashed across the bottom of the screen.

"It's usually bad news when that happens," muttered Warren.

The scene switched before Adama could pick up what was happening, but the animated splash at the bottom of the screen read **Panic In Russia.** The television now showed footage from another channel, this one filled with cyrillic characters. The American announcer was voicing over a Russian reporter, giving a translation of what was happening.

"_It started early this morning,"_ it read, and Adama remembered that the country was on the other side of the planet relative to him. "_Government troops are now battling well organized insurgents on the streets of most major Soviet cities, and are also holding a front in Moscow, where the Kremlin has fallen under heavy siege, with Red Army soldiers holding the line in such a way that cuts the city effectively in half. However another faction has appeared, assisting the insurgents in battling government forces, with units proving surprisingly resilient to small-arms fire. The situation is rapidly growing worse with each passing hour."_

The scene switched from the frazzled Russian reporter to a film captured on what must have been a handheld device. Sure enough, Russian soldiers were fighting other similarly equipped fighters, but a glint of metal in the background attracted the camera's focus to a large shape that opened fire into the Russian lines. The object proved beyond a doubt that this was more than a private little war.

"What the hell is _that?_" Warren exclaimed. "Is that mechanical?"

"Where's that satellite picture?" Adama asked hurriedly. "If that is what I think it is, they've been sneaking in troops under your nose."

"It's here," said the general (Patton, according to his name tag), silent until this point. He showed Adama a laptop computer, with another colourful touch screen in place of physical keys. Sure enough, Adama saw what he was looking for.

"Mr. President, it is imperative that you switch to the highest alert status you have."

"Are you saying there's an imminent threat against our country?" asked Warren. When Adama nodded, Warren cut him off. "General Patton, coordinate with the Joint Chiefs. Tell them I want to be at DEFCON 2 as soon as possible. Be ready to go to DEFCON 1 if I deem it necessary."

Adama impatiently started again. "Mr. President, this satellite photo shows that this is far beyond a simple civil war. This will give the Cylons a beachhead on this planet." Adama swung the laptop around to show Warren the photo.

"What do the Cylons have to do with any of this? Unless..." He took a closer look at the aircraft. "Is that a Cylon ship?"

Adama nodded. "Time's up."

_**Battlestar Agippa**_

Greer ducked into CIC, the alarms going full tilt. All ships were at Condition One, and preparing to jump to escape coordinates randomly generated aboard the _Agrippa_ and distributed to the fleet. The _Activity_ was a problem, though. She could take care of herself but if the Cylons showed up in any numbers she might have to be abandoned.

"Coordinates distributed." reported Ensign White from tactical. Greer wasn't too worried about having someone inexperienced at the post, but the old _Pegasus_ crewman was caught there when the alert first came through.

"They'll be on us any second now." said Commander Ramius. "_Spitfire_ and _Odyssey_ both report successful spin-up and are ready to escort the fleet to standby site."

"Channel power to the weapons array and load all missile tubes. Launch of nuclear weapons is now authorized." Greer ordered. He pulled a key from around his neck and inserted it into the plot table. Ramius imitated with a key of his own. They turned at the same time, and a green light appeared. "Signal the ships of beta group to do the same." Greer had divided the ships into two groups. The _Spitfire _and the _Odyssey_ would both jump with the fleet while the rest of the battlegroup would remain with the _Activity_ to defend in case any of the ships had FTL malfunctions. Raptors were powered down in orbit, and if the _Activity_ was compromised they would pick up the survivors and escape. Naslund had helped create this situation by refusing to abandon the starship, but had only a skeleton crew to operate the combat systems. All non-essential personnel were onboard the _Spitfire._

"The fleet's- Contact! Contact, multiple bandits, three Baseships on a CBDR, fleet's still jumping away." White said excitedly.

"Copy to battlegroup and _Activity,"_ Greer ordered calmly. "Put us between them and the fleet."

"Three basestars?" Ramius pointed out.

"Up until this point they've only had to deal with the _Galactica._" said Greer. "We gotta make sure we hammer them before they get back and give away our status. They shouldn't know that we've encountered the other survivors." He looked sharply at Ramius. "We took them by surprise before, last time we got lucky. Let's keep it that way."

"They're launching nukes!" White reported. "Seven inbound, five on us, two on _Activity._"

"_Activity_ just shifted power to the weapons array. They're up to something," said Ramius.

"One nuke, no two-" White was having trouble keeping up. The anti-meteorite laser emplacement on the _Activity_ was targeting the missiles and vaporizing them with a coherent beam of light, less than a second for each missile. The entire cluster of nukes was reduced to debris, dust, and gas in less than five seconds.

"That's pretty damn impressive," Ramius muttered. "They're launching Raiders now."

"All batteries establish suppression fire. Priority on nuclear ordnance. Tie in to fire control."

"Understood," said White. The _Activity_ was cutting huge swaths through the incoming swarm of Raiders. The console then beeped louder than it had up to this point. "The _Activity's_ launched one quarter of its entire nuclear arsenal... The launches were perfectly instantaneous."

"Again, impressive." said Greer. "Stand by on Vipers, but hold them in the tubes. Repeat, hold in the tubes."

Ramius studied the DRADIS display. "Five of the missiles have been destroyed, the Cylons are now selectively targeting the nuclear missiles."

"But there are so many at least a few should get through," said Greer. "Their strategy seems to have merit."

White then rained on the parade. "The _Activity_ just lost power. Massive computer failure. They've just launched their entire remaining arsenal manually."

No less than thirty missiles of assorted nuclear and non-nuclear variety raced out of the dying Terran starship. They had been released by manual explosive bolts, and were sprinting towards the basestars.

"Signal the Raptors to pick up the survivors." ordered Greer. "What's the status of the nuclear missiles?"

"The Cylon are definitely targeting them." Half were gone, but enough remained to completely destroy the Cylons. "Our area suppression fire is keeping the fighter wings disorganized. Confirm one basestar destroyed. Six more missiles inbound for the last two... One more confirmed destroyed, one severely damaged."

"Signal the _Minotaur_ to move in to point-blank and open up with lateral batteries. Smash them."

The _Nonsuch-_class frigate moved alongside the last stricken basestar and promptly opened up. The Raiders helplessly flew in between the dying carrier and the Colonial frigate, desperately trying to delay the destruction of the basestar. Some of them even rammed the _Minotaur,_ but not many passed through the wall of flak. The _Agrippa_ moved around the Cylon vessel and opened fire.

"Massive detonations and decompressions..." reported Ramius. "All contacts destroyed. And we didn't even have to launch the fighters. The Terrans might have something there."

"Set a course for the fleet and recall all Raptors." ordered Greer. "The system will be swarming with Cylons in very short order."

_**Washington D.C., United States**_

"Ah, Madam President," said Warren as President Beria entered the Office. "I assume you've been informed of the situation in Russia."

"You mean the ongoing battle between the Red Army and the NKGB? Trust me, Admiral, I know what goes on in my own country. Especially with your free press."

Warren twiddled his thumbs for a second, then sat down behind the Resolute Desk. "So what happens now?"

"The NKGB wishes to overthrow the legitimate government of the SSR, Gromyko's always believed that I am too moderate and weak. They waited until I was away to launch, they must have the entire operation planned out. I'm somewhat surprised that they chose to act at all, their forces are small compared to the Red Army."

"You think they're acting alone?"

"Who else would they work with? They seem to be gaining much more ground than I thought they would, but then I thought Gromyko wasn't idiotic enough to launch that kind of campaign. They caught us by surprise, and now they almost control the Kremlin, while we're still trying to activate most of our forces. I would like to know where they got the mechanized infantry, but at this point stopping them is a greater concern."

Warren couldn't tell a thing from Beria's face, he knew from experience that it was near impossible to crack.

"They do have assistance." he said. "It's the Cylons, they've committed troops and resources to aiding the NKGB forces. The mobile Centurion units have proven resistant to most of your small arms fire, and require larger rounds to destroy. It is because of them that your forces are falling back in disarray. They simply weren't expecting to require firepower of that magnitude."

_"Bozhemoi!" _she exclaimed, her face expressing shock. Warren was almost as shocked as she was just seeing her express emotion. "The Admiral was right!"

"This is only the beginning, they won't stop now. I've put my forces at DEFCON 2, and I can try to deploy any assistance you might need. That is, if I can get Congress to authorize it."

"Once our heavier weaponry comes through it shouldn't be a problem." said Beria. "But thank you for the assistance. I'm afraid it won't be necessary."

"You do realize the Cylons have started attacking your depots with surgical air strikes."

Beria once again surprised Warren by expressing dismay. "I wish we had a news service as efficient as yours. I'd like the kind of luck the Cylons are having right now."

"No!" Warren exclaimed. "They knew exactly how and where to hit you. They understood how your defense system worked. There must have been a Cylon agent working inside your government! Adama said that was how the Cylons compromised the Colonies. They're doing it again, here! Adama showed up and screwed up their plans, so they're going to have to do it the old-fashioned way."

"Again we come to your question: Now what?"

"I might have a solution to that..." said Warren with barely contained glee. "We've had something in development during the failed FTL experiment forty years ago... I never thought we'd have any use for it, it's been sitting and gathering dust for a while."

"Some American gadget, I'm sure." said Beria. "You Americans are too dependent on your technology. The Cylons could target you and shut your country down."

"A gadget, yes, but a gadget that will keep both the Colonials and the Cylons guessing!"

"I like the sound of this so far." said Beria. "Have you shared this with the Colonials?"

"I wouldn't be telling _you_ if your country wasn't under attack, but considering the circumstances you should know. We reversed the principle of the FTL drive and developed a dampening field that can block out FTL jumps." Warren activated the monitor on the wall to show a schematic of the device.

Beria stared blankly at it. "And what is this?"

"Uh, yeah..." Warren scratched his head. "Well to tell you the truth I don't have any idea what this crap does. All I know is that any ship trying to jump into a certain area is redirected to the border of the dampening field."

Beria continued staring at him. "Two questions: first, does it work, and second if it does can it cover the surface of the Earth?"

Warren's smile faded. "The boys at... the research post think it will work. However so far it can only cover a certain area."

Beria raised her eyebrows. She really was slipping. "What area?"

Warren scratched his head uncomfortably. "Er... Ten square miles. Give or take a hundred yards."

Beria nodded, trying not to sound too underwhelmed. "It's a start. I suggest you show the prototype to the Colonials in orbit. They know more about FTL drives than any Terran alive today. And this sounds like a weapon that can negate the Cylons' greatest advantage, and level the playing field."

"The CIA advises against sharing it..." Warren said.

Beria's eyes flashed. "My country is falling apart. Cylon ships are clearly jumping in and out of the air at will. You say this machine can prevent it. Unless you _want_ the SSR to fall, give the damned machine to the experts and save millions of people in the process. So I hope you decide soon!"

As Beria rose, Warren waved a hand. "Before you go, I've offered to give the Russian embassy any resources they need in order to let you run your country from here. There's also office space downstairs."

Beria inclined her head. "Thank you, Mr. President."

As she left, Warren sighed and leaned back, picking up the phone. "Connie, get me Area 51. Tell them I want the FTL-dampener in a box ready to be sent up to the _Valkyrie _ASAP And if they complain tell them it's either that or I'm inviting a team down, and I don't give a shit if the goddamned machine's classified. Yes, you can tell them that. Yes, I mean word for word!"

_**Moscow, Russia**_

Major Lavochkin threw himself under a slab of concrete as the plasma charges buzzed overhead, blasting chunks out of the wall behind him. His own plasma rifle hung unused at his side, as he tried to call his unit. So far the airwaves had been jammed pretty neatly, and every frequency was a solid tone.

"_Bozhemoi!_" he shouted over the explosions and cheerful pops of weapons fire. "Sergeant! Are you there Sergeant?"

"_Da_!" Petrov shouted back, as he leapt over the rubble. "Damn NKGB bastards got us pinned down but good! Devil's nephew only knows how we'll get out of this!"

"Shit!" Lavochkin cursed. "So what the hell can we do?"

"We exhausted our anti-tank rockets and grenades fighting the metalheads." Petrov reported. "We're down to throwing rocks at the bastards."

"What's your status?" Lavochkin asked.

"I got two clips of plasma cartridges, but apart from that I'm out."

"_Bozhemoi!"_ Lavochkin hissed. "We have to pull back!"

"And abandon the city?" Petrov exclaimed. Another shell exploded nearby, shaking the dugout wildly. "Alright, we'll pull back! But how can we communicate?"

"We'll just have to rely on the local commanders to make the right choice!" shouted Lavochkin. "Without armour or air support we're going to be chewed to pieces!" Sure enough, another plasma shell impacted a nearby building. The explosion was drowned by the roar of collapsing scaffolding and woodwork.

"PULL BACK! PULL BACK! GET YOUR ASSES OUT OF THERE!" Lavochkin bellowed at the top of his lungs. He fired a burst from his plasma rifle into the air, and then crawled backwards out of the hole. Soldiers, some of them throwing aside empty stovepipe rocket launchers, also popped up out of the emplacements, pulling back as the combined Cylon and NKGB forces pushed forward. Lavochkin saw two Cylon machines open fire on the retreating Red Army, cutting a swath through the defenders. He found shelter and opened up with his own automatic plasma rifle. But the bullets couldn't penetrate the hard shell of the metalhead, and the armour seemed to be non-conductive as well, for the plasma charge each bullet was coated with didn't damage the machine either. But it did a damn good job of distracting it.

He ducked behind the wall seconds before the machine turned and sprayed non-charged bullets at the place he'd been standing moments before. If not for the metalheads the skirmish would've been long since over, but as it was the Cylons were forcing the unprepared and therefore poorly equipped Red Army units backwards.

Lavochkin popped out again after the metalhead had peppered the wall to its satisfaction. The entire street had been pockmarked and obliterated, with not a single windowpane or unmarked wall. Most of the casualties seemed to be Reds, along with the few metalheads that the rockets and other explosives had destroyed.

Lavochkin ran and didn't stop running backwards until he found the nearest operating command post, behind the lines.

"Major Lavochkin, tell me things aren't as bad as I've heard." said Colonel Tretiak, the commander for the Central Moscow Front.

"Probably worse, sir." Lavochkin saluted. "Damned metalheads have turned the fight, and we've exhausted all of our explosives. Grenades, anti-tank rockets, the lot. Until we get some more equipment or support, we're dead. There's no way we can take them, not with plasma rifles and canteens."

"What do you suggest then? Give up the city?"

"The city's lost, we just don't accept it yet. All we can do is go out there and get shot. We can't penetrate the armour of those mechanical soldiers. It's like we've got pellet guns."

"I've been trying to get materiel forward but the enemy air forces have been terrorizing the supply lines and shelling the depots. At this rate of attrition in two days we'll have about 12 capacity. Our airfields were the first to get hit. The ones that weren't hit first quickly went dark, and we haven't been able to contact them." Tretiak slammed the table with his fist. "I fear you may be right."

"It doesn't matter what you think. If we're to have any forces left by morning we must get our asses out of here!"

Tretiak stared daggers at him, but nodded. "Corporal Yeltsin, fire the red and orange flares, and pack the tent. We're leaving."

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

"Cylons on Earth!" Greer exclaimed. "I never thought Earth was real, let alone having the Cylons invade it!"

Ramius shrugged. "For now, all we can do is wait. Tau Ceti is no longer safe, while Earth itself is slowly being conquered."

"The last Raptor said only the SSR had been attacked, and that a breakaway sect of the Soviet government had allied itself with them to depose the President. But why? Why all the plotting? Why haven't they just shut down and nuked Earth like they did with us?"

Ramius watched Greer pace back and forth inside the cabin. "Isn't it obvious? We only found out about the humanoid Cylon models and their sabotage when it was too late. Thanks to Adama, the Terrans discovered the Cylons in the early stages of the operation. Adama said that less than a month ago the Cylons were still ignorant as to the location of Earth, leading to the confrontation over that planet in the star cluster."

"So you're saying we interfered with their plans?"

Ramius nodded. "Makes sense, doesn't it? Kara Thrace falling through that anomaly is the only reason we found Earth at all. With all the noise it's putting out I'm amazed they didn't find it sooner, but that's a moot point. Now they've had a chance to adapt, and firewall everything. Question is, will they?"

"So, what do we do now? Adama's requested a few more pilots, but we can't keep sitting out here. We have to do something at some point."

Ramius shook his head. "Where would the civilians go? The Cylons have interrupted the settlement negotiations, we have no destination. We have to stay and protect the civvies."

Greer nodded. "Let's just hope Earth's tough enough to last five minutes."

_**Russian Embassy, Washington**_

Beria sat back in the converted meeting room, watching the incoming data streams on the monitors hanging on the walls. The front had been pushed back even further, out of Moscow and Ryazan, the dark patches representing Axis forces growing out from the surrounding areas like a tumor. Penza, Kostroma, and Vologda had also fallen, and the Axis forces had reached Kazakhstan in the south. If they pushed much further north they might try to bisect Russia. Konosha was under siege, and once through that there was no further military presence right until the Barents Sea. Then the Navy could extend a presence inland as far as the destroyers could fire. But the carriers had fallen under attack, and three had been lost. Fierce dogfights still raged over the Arctic Ocean, with the Russian aircraft holding the remaining six carriers.

"And what of the land-based aircraft?" Beria asked. "How many airfields remain?"

"Most of the intact fields are either out of range or have gone dark. They won't show themselves for fear of elimination, because the commanders must not be sure it would do any good to give away their position for a few offensives."

"Give me some numbers," demanded Beria.

"In the area, we're down to 14 of total air capability." said General Gorbuchov. "Armour forces have also been hit hard. The supply lines are too scrambled to get much to the Front."

"So you're saying without air we're as good as defeated." Beria said.

Gorbuchov and Chekov both nodded.

Beria sighed. "The Americans _have_ to get involved. I can't believe I'm saying this but we need them."

"And the Europeans? We should get the Luftwaffe involved."

Beria nodded. "Fine, get the EU and try to get some assistance."

"And what of the Colonials?" asked Chekov. "They appear to have a small strike force docked aboard their starship. And I'm sure Adama would love to get his hands on the Cylons."

Beria's neck was starting to ache from all the nodding she was doing. "Get me President Warren. He's the only one who can get American support in less than a week."

"You don't think we'll last a week?" asked Gorbuchov.

"We've lost five cities in two days. At this rate they'll be at Pskov by next Tuesday."

"I have Warren, Madam President." Chekov held out the phone. "At least he gives you priority."

"Thank you, Chekov." said Beria. "President Warren, I trust you've been kept up to date on events inside Russia."

"_That is correct, Madam President. Things aren't going too well."_

"That would be the understatement of the year." Beria said. "Mr. President I need air support. My forces are down to 14. Without air, the Cylons can strike our forces any time they choose, as well as our supply lines. I estimate two days before we must capitulate. And you know Russia has never surrendered to anyone before."

"_If you're asking for American assistance, I don't know what we can do."_

"You have several forward bases in Turkey, Italy, and Ukraine. You could aircraft in there by this afternoon. You said you could get us some support!"

"_It's not that easy and you know it. I've got reporters from every news station in the country hunting for details, and I'm up to my neck in press conferences and interview requests. And I'm not sure how Americans would react to another war, especially one that helps you."_

"Didn't Adama say something about this?" Beria snapped. "That our petty disputes would lead us inexorably to defeat? That's what's happening right now! Neither of us can stand against the Cylons alone. We're all human, aren't we?"

_"I can try. But I don't know how eager Congress will be."_

"You Americans and your democracy! You take forever to do the simplest things!"

"_Excuse me for putting my country first. We aren't at war with the Cylons. They haven't attacked us. Not yet."_

"I'm sure they knew that when they attacked us. Guess it was easier to take us one by one. Trust me, President Warren, you're next."

"_I'll take that under advisement. Have you considered nuclear weapons?"_

"Not only would the radiation irradiate everything around Moscow, but we have no way of delivering it. To be honest with you, though it pains me to say this I wish we could use nuclear weapons. Moscow has been completely overrun, and will probably be used as the new base of operations, and having the capital is a great propaganda device."

_"Madam President, I have an alternative. I must know now, do you wish me to act?"_

"Anything you can do to help, Mr. President."

"_Be careful what you wish for, Madam President." _The line went dead.

"What does he mean by that?" asked Gorbuchov. "Madam President, shouldn't you be more cautious?"

"It does not matter! If he can assist us, all the better. Get me Adama!"

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Adama rolled over fitfully in his bunk, trying to get some sleep. He hadn't had much of an opportunity, what with the President a hostage of the NKGB, who then decided to ally with the Cylons and take over western Russia. He was uneasy about allowing the SSR to deal with it themselves, but he didn't want to start another incident. He needed all the nations of Earth together, not apart, in order to hold off the Cylon invasion.

_"Pass the word for Admiral Adama, Admiral Adama, incoming transmission."_

So much for trying to get some shuteye.

Adama rolled over and grabbed the commline. "Adama."

"_Admiral Adama, this is President Beria of the SSR."_

"What can I do for you, Madam President? Is this related to the Cylon incursion?"

"_Incursion is putting it lightly, Admiral. This is an unmitigated disaster. I have no air support, and both the Europeans and the Americans are nervous about putting up aircraft. I understand you have several fully equipped squadrons at your disposal."_

"Yes, Madam President, but hardly enough to make a difference."

"_All I need is a show of force. Give me a breakthrough, show that the Cylons can be countered, and maybe the other powers will follow. My Air Force is down to 14 capability, my Navy is under direct assault, we need outside assistance or this country will collapse in the next two days, and if everything you've said about these Cylons is true then you and I both know this cannot be allowed."_

"I understand Madam President. I can have one of my squadrons detached for a short time. Where is the largest concentration of troops?"

_"Fifty kilometres east of Moscow."_

"Expect good news, Madam President. Expect good news." He switched the feeds. "CIC, Adama. I want Blue squadron ready to launch in five minutes."

_"Where's the fire, Admiral?"_

"Air support fifty kilometres east of Moscow. They're to stop the Cylon advance."

"_Aye, sir. One more thing, a small asteroid just appeared on DRADIS. We believe it originated from the Belt beyond Mars. There's a chance it could impact Earth in the next two hours."_

"Two hours? How did it break orbit?"

_"Unknown. This is one of the asteroids with the strange installations, it could be propelled."_

"You mean it's being pushed?" Adama asked incredulously. "There's some other force acting on it?"

"_"It's one of the asteroids with the unusual installations. We're picking up a strong radialogical signature."_

"Are you telling me there's an atomic engine attached to that asteroid?"

"_There's no doubt that the asteroid is under guidance. By who, we don't know. It could be a weapon of some kind. Either way there's nothing we can do."_

"If it's under guidance there may be a good reason. Let it go, but keep me posted. Have those Vipers launched."

_**SSR, Fifty Kilometres East of Moscow**_

A shriek from above caused all the soldiers to hit the dirt, which fortunately was dry from the heat. But Lavochkin could tell the sound was different from the usual horseshoe-shaped aircraft that had commanded the skies for so long. Sure enough, the aircraft were of a design he had never before seen. It wasn't an American F-39, or a European Cyclone, and he could identify every Russian aircraft just by listening to it. These were triple-engine needles with undersized wings and large stabilizer that was shaped more like the fletching on an arrow than a combat aircraft. When the first one fired into the enemy lines, the entire front raised a cheer that could probably be heard for kilometres.

"We've got 'em!" Lavochkin bellowed as three more allied aircraft strafed the metalheads and the NKGB forces. Guided rockets started shooting from the enemy position, and the allied fighters peeled off. Replacing them came two stumpy beige aircraft that then ripple-fired radar homing missiles that locked on to the SAM emplacements and shredded them. The two shuttles then climbed away as the fighters moved back into position, lacing the enemy front with autocannon fire. The enemy forces started falling back.

"Forward!" Lavochkin shouted into the radio, and soon the Red Army was moving forward for the first time since the start of the conflict.

Sure enough, the tide had been turned. Faced with the aircraft the NKGB had no choice but to move back.

Lavochkin leapt over a ridge and rolled to the next shelter. He peered over the edge and saw the enemy soldiers pulling back. He pulled his plasma rifle to his shoulder and opened fire on one of the human soldiers. He only clipped him, but the plasma charge on the bullet killed him anyway. The enemy forces then became more cautious, pullig backwards while firing. One of them stitched Lavochkin's ridge with plasma bullets, but he'd ducked down.

"Lavochkin to all units, report on progress." he spoke into his radio.

All the reports indicated that all attempts by the metalheads to move forward had been halted along the front, and even the worst cases were only stalemates.

Lavochkin looked over the ridge to see a group of four metalheads moving towards his position. He opened fire, but the bullets did no damage to the armoured units.

"This is Major Lavochkin, I need air support at position 12, four mobile units advancing. Sending up flare." He pulled out a flare gun and shot into the air.

Soon enough one of the fighters dived down overhead and saturated the metalheads with cannon fire. The larger, faster shells tore the machines limb from limb. All four were down, and Lavochkin's unit could move forward again.

The attack progressed and advanced for thirty minutes, with the allied forces gaining two kilometres. Despite the change in fortune the NKGB still made the allies fight for every metre gained. The air support ensured that the Red Army had the resources and support to take it.

Forty-five minutes after the appearance of the first fighter, flashes in the sky announced the arrival of enemy air support. Like they always did, the raiders appeared from nowhere, only this time they ran into the unknown fighters. The two sides quickly started to exchange blows, with the allied aircraft having a clear upper hand. Oddly enough neither side resorted to missiles, and the conflict degenerated into an anachronistic dogfight that wouldn't have looked out of place in the Second World War, albeit at twice the speeds. The allies had a definite advantage in maneuvering ability, and continued to turn inside the raiders and demolish them with gunfire. Numerical superiority was somehow failing the enemy raiders.

Another roar from the east attracted his attention. Low on the horizon was another squadron of fighters, only this time he recognized them.

"The Americans! The Americans are here!" he shouted, as the F-39 Nightwalkers entered the fray. They wasted no time locking on with missiles, and sent fifteen raiders falling out of the sky in the first minute. The F-39s passed through the dogfight and climbed, breaking formation and putting distance between each fighter to minimize targets. The raiders somehow didn't notice them. Lavochkin couldn't blame them, the stealth on the F-39 was enough to ensure that unless you were looking right at it you wouldn't know it was there. The raiders were once again swept from the sky by the American fighters.

Once again the NKGB was falling back, pushed towards Moscow. The initial force of raiders was being hacked to pieces by the combined allied air force. Lavochkin couldn't believe the change in fortune. In an hour and a half the enemy advance had not only been halted but reversed. they were being pushed back towards Moscow, but they did still have forty kilometres to go.

"How about that, Major?" Petrov said, climbing over a slagged machine-gun emplacement. "Now we're the ones pushing forward!"

"_Da!"_ Lavochkin agreed. "But for how long? So far the metalheads have seemed invincible."

"So did Hitler, back in the day's of Stalin!" Petrov said. "But we smashed Germany! We wrecked their capital. We did it before and we can do it again!"

"This is our own land we're talking about here!"

"And this is why we must liberate it! Remember Stalingrad? I have a feeling the battle for Moscow will be the same."

"I hope not, Sergeant. I hope not."

_**SSR, Fifty Kilometres West of Moscow**_

Racetrack banged her head against the metal bulkhead as the troop carrier rolled over the ruined road. Gorbunova hadn't done anything remotely close to executing her and the injured President. Roslin had regained semi-consiousness but still wasn't lucid. Her arm was set, but she was in a bad way. They were now heading into occupied Moscow, were the headquarters of the Cylon-NKGB alliance was now being set up.

"You're wondering why we haven't disposed of you yet, aren't you?" Gorbunova said.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was..." said Edmonson.

"You can thank your Colonial friends up there. They've gotten involved now, and along with the Americans are forcing us back. We'll start moving forward again, but in the meantime..."

"You think I'm going to give away tactical information? Sorry, but you'll just have to kill me."

"I thought so." sighed Gorbunova. "Of course, we could always just keep you in Moscow-"

A rattling bang shook the carrier, and everyone inside was thrown around. "Raiders!" Gorbunova hissed. Sure enough, the sides echoed with automatic rounds bouncing off the hull. The carrier was no longer moving, and Racetrack suspected a rocket or land mine had taken out the engine.

The rear of the craft was wrenched open, and armed men jumped inside. Racetrack shot her hands in the air, but Gorbunova tried to shoot something else. The pistol dropped from her hand as strange blue tracer bullets erupted from the lead soldier's rifle. He then shouted something in Russian, which Racetrack didn't understand.

"No, we're prisoners! We're prisoners!" she shouted back.

The soldier paused and lowered his weapon. "Amerikan?" he asked.

"No, Colonial." She pointed skywards.

The soldier said something once again and gestured Racetrack to follow them. One of them came forward with what looked like a collapsable stretcher for the President.

Racetrack looked outside. "What's happening?"

The commanding officer looked confused for a moment, then looked out the back of the vehicle. The sunlight was getting lighter and glowing red. He shouted more Russian and leapt out of the carrier.

The sky was on fire.

_**SSR, Fifty Kilometres East of Moscow**_

Lavochkin looked in undisguised awe as the flaming object streaked across the sky. It was not a missile or kinetic bombardment device, it was too large and too slow.

"What the hell is _that!?_" shouted Petrov.

"I don't know..." Lavochkin muttered. "Here of all places though..."

Whatever it was it was heading directly for Moscow. "It's going to hit the city!" Lavochkin cried. He didn't know whether to cheer or weep. He ended up doing both.

The horizon brightened and continued to glow as the object impacted the city. It was strangely quiet and peaceful as everyone stopped the immediate fighting to stare at the fireball engulfing the former capital of Russia. A mushroom cloud rose peacefully over the blinding light.

Then the shock wave hit.

It was an earthquake, bomb strike and thunderstorm rolled into one. The shockwave knocked everyone flat and roared over the countryside. Several fighters overhead lost control and spun a few times before the pilots regained attitude.

When the smoke cleared, Moscow was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12**_

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Saul Tigh stared out the viewport at the fleet, scattered out among an uncharted debris field. The sight was awe-inspiring, with huge asteroids appearing and disappearing in a vast nebula of gases and dust. This would eventually collapse to form a new solar system, but for now would remain the beautiful maelstrom that played out before him. The other observers watched the nursery like a motion picture, some even eating popcorn, and the lines outside stretched for almost 20 metres. It was certainly more attractive and exciting than normal space.

With a flash of memory he recalled the Cylon raider barreling straight towards the viewport, before alert Vipers tore it to pieces... He banished the image from his mind, and walked out of the observation deck.

The ship (_his_ ship) seemed a lot less active than it had hours before. The corridors were hardly vacant, but certainly fewer go-fers were running around with whatever menial job they did to keep the carrier running.

He was anxious, that was a certainty. Tyrol still hadn't reported back his findings yet, although with all the activity on Earth Tigh couldn't blame him. The shuttle runs between the _Valkyrie_ and the fleet's new position had increased in frequency to twice a day, and Tigh knew that sooner or later there would be an encrypted message for his eyes only. He was almost afraid of receiving it, lest it confirm his fears of being a Cylon sleeper agent. The longer he remained in command of _Galactica,_ the more of a liability he became.

But did knowing he was a Cylon help any? He didn't know any tactical knowledge about them, or anything that could help the humans (there were no longer just Colonials in the fleet). He recalled interrogating the old Boomer, and how she didn't say anything. Now he could feel more understanding, for he knew nothing at all.

Sure enough, a message came two Raptors later. Tigh took it from the delivery non-com and dropped it in his desk.

And there it sat.

It was four hours later, when Ensign Anders ran into Tigh unofficially, that he decided to open it. Anders joined him, though Foster was unavailable. In the President's absence she was running Colonial One with Vice-President Zarek, and keeping the fleet as operational as possible. At least the work kept her mind of other matters.

Anders sealed the hatch behind him as Tigh placed the thick envelope on the desk. Tigh cut through the red tape and slid out a CD, popping into his laptop computer. He'd had to find one, seeing as _Galactica_ hadn't been gifted with as many terminals as the more modern ships, but had managed it.

"Computer, declassify and decrypt, authorization Tigh-3-54-3-Ellen."

The computer hummed slowly and then opened the contents of the disk, which was one file. PROJECT MIMIC

"Jackpot!" Anders punched his palm, and leaned forward.

"He was right all along..." Tigh murmured... "But I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed."

"You're no longer a liability to the ship. No programming at all." said Anders. "You can be confident that the ship is safe, for all that matters you might as well be human."

"All this for nothing... Make sure Foster understand the whole story. And tell her not to worry."

"I'm relieved, that's for sure." said Anders, ducking out of the hatch.

Tigh leaned back and sighed. Anders was right. He was relieved.

He was his own master.

Time for a drink.

_**Fifty Kilometres East of Moscow**_

Kara Thrace circled the battleground, looking for targets of opportunity. Ground forces had been in confusion ever since the obliteration of Moscow, and several Cylon spearheads had pushed far forward, while Russian forces had pushed onwards in other areas. The front was becoming very disrupted in the confusion.

With air support, the Red Army had been able to set up some standard artillery, with plasma cannons moving into position. The NKGB had only Centurion-mounted missiles and field guns, and were not equipped for battleground fighting. The Raiders had proved the greatest nuisance, and the steadily increasing numbers were starting to strain the Allied forces. Despite this huge numbers of Raiders were easily downed by American fighters, as the DRADIS of both sides seemed to be incapable of detecting the stealth craft.

Starbuck strafed another Cylon position, sending toasters flying left and right (some centurions flew left and right at the same time) and destroying two missile batteries unloaded from landed Heavy Raiders.

She twisted around and pulled hard as a Raider pulled onto her six. She easily out turned the Raider and selected another target. She sent a missile tearing through another Raider, scattering shrapnel all over the Cylon lines. The first Raider was still clawing to find her blind spot behind and below her, and was becoming a hazard. She pulled vertical and rolled at the top, five thousand feet higher and pointing the other way.

The Raider couldn't match her climb, and while he was pulling around she banked hard and turned inside him, placing the crosshairs on her HUD directly between his engines. The short cannon burst cut him in half.

Starbuck dived down, but her DRADIS beeped loudly in her helmet. Sure enough, three large blips were slowly approaching.

"_Valkyrie,_ Starbuck, I got three heavies coming in, airborne, not fighters, repeat, not fighters. Are they allied?"

"_That's affirmative, Starbuck. Heavies are allied carriers."_

"Carriers? How's that possible?" Starbuck twisted around, trying to catch sight of them. She thought she caught sight of a large streamlined vessel behind her...

_You can't launch jets from a frakkin' blimp! _Starbuck quickly closed on the carriers, and to her surprise they were massive airships. They were vastly superior to the early Caprican airships, with turboprop engines and water collection grills lining the side of the ship. Everything was as close as possible to the hull, which consisted of a shimmering metallic material. The lead airship was identified on the hull as the USS _Shenandoah,_ the second was the _Robert F. Kennedy, _and the third was the _Richard Featherstone._

"_Shenandoah__to all Colonial aircraft, we are launching fighters."_

Five fighters dropped out of the belly of each airship, dropping earthward like stones. They pulled up after gaining sufficient speed and rocketed up past the carriers. Three flights of five aircraft each broke up to attack the Cylon Raiders, although the aircraft were different from the Nightstalkers already in flight.

These were also invisible to DRADIS, but had swing wings that rotated back to form a delta-platform and could rotate forward for maneuvering. They resembled sharks more than birds-of-prey, the first plane ripple-firing a barrage of missiles into the effectively blind swarm of Raiders.

Some of the Raiders seemed to have clued in to the stealth of the aircraft, and were desperately trying to detect them visually. Unfortunately for them the Cylons who had designed them had not foreseen an attack by stealth aircraft, and the viewing ports were too small for seeking out the black aircraft.

Starbuck wheeled around again, dousing another Raider in a flow of tracer. It broke left, and she turned to follow. Suddenly her Viper jerked sharply to port and started to roll. Her left arm had lost all feeling, except for a slight warmth.

Panicking, she tried to look behind her. Vipers had excellent all-round vision except to the rear, and she could see nothing but her horizontal stabilizer. She had a momentary envy of the American pilots and their bubble canopies, but her dying Viper shook violently to remind her of her increasing decent.

One look at her port wing told her all she need to know. A well placed cannon burst had shorn it completely away, and the ground was growing closer fast. Sixty seconds and she'd be too low to eject.

She cut the engines and dropped her remaining fuel, before punching out. She shot straight out of the craft, leaving her stomach behind, and lightly blacked out, coming to ten seconds later in free fall. With her left arm senseless, she had to reach across to release her parachute, which stopped her with a sharp jerk.

She slowly drifted down over Russian lines, and spilled a little air out of her chute to turn her fall away from the Cylon lines.

She came down hard on her bruised leg, and rolled to a painful stop. She could stand easily enough, and deflated her parachute. The nearest Russian position was to the north, so she unslung her helmet and hung it from her belt. She discarded her oxygen tank, and started out for the camp, muttering curses the whole way.

_**Cylon Basestar**_

Six slammed her fist against the wall beside the terminal. The data being relayed directly into her nervous system was looking grimmer and grimmer. Early projections had shown the Terrans to be a fractured world, one the threshold of global war. Defying all expectations, the Americans and now the Europeans were starting to throw up squadrons of aircraft advanced enough to confuse the Raiders' DRADIS. The careful planning was being systematically unwoven as the situation branched away from all projections.

"Bad as we thought?" came a voice from the doorway.

"Worse." said Six, knowing it was a Five before he came into view. "The Europeans are now coming into the fray. And their aircraft are also enough to outperform our Raiders."

"Raiders are space-superiority fighters. They will never be capable aircraft. But they're all we got." said Five. He sat down on a chair in the corner.

"But this was supposed to be impossible!" Six fumed. "The Terrans were barely on speaking terms with one another, bickering and fighting. We should've been able to take them out one at a time." She removed her hand from the data stream, and started to leave the room.

"You of all models should know that things are not written in stone." Five stood up and followed her, "Only God can know the true shape of things to come."

"Yes. That doesn't make me like it any better. We may be forced to sterilize this planet as well."

"That's completely out of the question." said Five. "You know what happened to the Colonies. The radiation didn't just kill them but us too. And in way's we couldn't remedy in time. We _must_ take this planet without resorting to nuclear weapons!"

"We can't even take Russia."

"Our Russian allies are fighting as hard as they can. We've gained valuable knowledge from them. Perhaps we can give them a few Heavy Raiders to use for themselves, that should please them."

"I personally don't care what pleases the Russians! As long as they fight and win! They seem to be having difficulty with both right now!" Six almost shouted, causing another Six down the corridor to turn and stare.

Five raised his hands. "Calm down. If we can start replicating the special rounds the Russians use in their firearms..."

"There simply aren't enough troops there. A couple thousand isn't enough, we need to really start putting more Centurions on the ground. The more Centurions there are, the less effective their ground troops will be. And we can bring a few basestars into orbit to coordinate-"

"We'll have to suppress their entire orbital defense network. And they have a small fleet of starships, as well as the _Galactica_ to defend them."

Six smirked. "It's not _Galactica."_

"What? How is that possible?"

"It's the battlestar _Valkyrie._ Part of Battlegroup 41. The one that was missing."

"So the _Valkyrie_ survived..."

"So the battlegroup must be out there! And with Adama on the _Valkyrie..."_

"The three basestars!" Five exclaimed. "That's why none of them returned! The Colonials doubled the odds!"

"Perhaps it's time we resorted to tactics we've never used before." Six mused... "Total war."

"We haven't fought like that since the War of Independence..." Five pointed out.

"It worked then, it can work now. Some artillery and missile batteries and we could turn things around. And troops. Lots of troops, all the troops we have at our disposal. We've got a planet against us now. Only one. Last time we had 12. The odds are better this time."

"Don't count them out just yet." said Five. "They're human. And humans have a tendency of popping up when you least expect them."

_**Strikestar Spitfire**_

Apollo yawned as he wandered into CIC, still wiping sleep from his eyes. The fleet had been doing nothing out here, just waiting for... nothing, really.The conflict on Earth looked like it could last a while. And until then it was deemed safer to remain out here, although no one had accounted for the inevitable boredom. At least at Tau Ceti there'd been a planet, and the possibility of the first true shore leave since New Caprica.

"What's up?" he asked Subharov.

"Not much, sir." she said. After the confrontation at Tau Ceti she had been considerably less irritating and insubordinate. Maybe the initial shock was wearing off as routine set in.

"Great..." he mumbled. "Anything set for today?"

"Well, Blue squadron gets a flight period, Red squadron has a live firing practice by the third rock from the sun..."

"Routine stuff, yeah..." Apollo found an empty chair by the fire control station and sat down. "Funny, you'd think with all this down time I'd be a little more awake."

"Well, your shift doesn't start for another hour..."

Apollo stared at her, then slapped his forehead. "Guess that explains it, then..."

"Alarm go off early?"

"Might not've gone off at all, might've been something else... I've just been going on autopilot for the last few days."

"The rec room's got some nice video games, I try them on occasion."

"Video games? Are you serious?"

Subharov nodded. "Yeah, old CO thought we could use something to do, brought along his whole collection. Little different from standard but sure is a lot more fun on long trips. I didn't think the trip would be this long." She walked over and leaned against the plot table.

"Yeah, well neither did a lot of us. We didn't get a choice on this tour of duty."

"No, I don't suppose we did..." Subharov cast a glance around the cramped control room, and then sighed. "Well, I guess you can get a short nap if you want, or slug it out here. It's your choice."

Apollo sighed, then stood up. "An hour, you say?" Subharov nodded. Apollo nodded too. "Naptime." He couldn't help but notice how absurd that sounded coming from the CO of a Colonial warship.

The ship was running extraordinarily well. It was almost too good to last. But nothing else was likely to happen.

The frigate _Minotaur_ had been sent with Commander Naslund on board to intercept and evacuate the _Shackleton,_ before it reached Cylon-occupied Tau Ceti. That was the only action in the entire fleet. Apollo had only left the ship three times for briefings aboard the _Agrippa._

He yawned again, deeply. He was almost starting to get used to the ship, smaller and more compact than either of his two previous postings. _Galactica_ was still in one piece, holding station on the other side of the fleet. And _Pegasus..._ He still missed her, having spent more than a year aboard. But in exchange he had saved the _Galactica_ and civilian population of New Caprica.

And that was worth more, wasn't it? He'd saved more people than he'd killed aboard the _Olympic Carrier._ That went towards redemption in his own eyes, but the memory of the sleek blue passenger liner erupting before his eyes was still powerful even as removed from the moment as he was.

_I gave the order. It's my responsibility._

_No, I pulled the trigger. It's mine._

Apollo massaged his forehead as he walked through the sliding doors into his small cabin. The muted blue-white glow was calming after the bright fluorescent hallway. He had forty five minutes of rest before him. Once upon a time that would have seemed like an eternity. In the present situation it was only a small chance to relax before the boredom of his shift.

The door-alert buzzer rang, and Apollo paused in the middle of his cabin. "Yeah, come in."

And the doors parted to reveal his estranged wife.

"Dee?" Apollo was shocked and stunned. Dualla had never set foot on the _Spitfire_ before now, and hadn't had any intention of doing so. He could only guess at what she was here for, and he didn't want to jump to conclusions too fast.

"Hi..." she murmured. She stood uncomfortably in the doorway. "Uh, can I come in?"

Apollo just looked for words before mumbling "Uh, yeah, of course."

She quickly stepped into the cabin, looking nervously around. She looked like she'd jump at a pin dropping, and wished she were somewhere else.

"What can I, uh, do for you?" Apollo asked.

"I'm sorry!" was all she could blurt out. "I listened to your speech at the trial, and..." She choked up. "I..."

"I did what I had to do." Apollo said. He'd been crushed when his wife, with whom he'd spent so much time in trying to iron out the defective relationship, left him as he defended Gaius Baltar against the mob that was the Fleet. She hadn't seen what had become of the 'justice' system, and had been blinded by the mistakes and crimes of the infamous ex-president. He hadn't seen or heard of her after she left.

And now...

"I know..." she whispered. "It's not worth losing what we had. I'd never been happier, and then you-"

"Don't say it." Apollo stopped her. "What's done is done. He's in the shadows again, and we may never hear of him. So forget him."

"I didn't want to appear... I had to have time to think." she said. "And nothing can change the fact that I am married to you, and I love you. And that's good enough for me."

"I don't know what to say..." Apollo mumbled.

"Then don't say anything." Dualla said. "Just accept it and move along."

Apollo smiled faintly. "Do you think Colonel Tigh would allow you to transfer? I have a position open for a comm officer..."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Morpha, stat!" shouted Major Doctor Cottle. "I need her unconscious!"

"She's in a coma," said Racetrack. "She's been catatonic since we crashed."

"Hell," Cottle mumbled. "You, grab here, we gotta get her to sickbay asap! Move it, go, go!"

Another of the medics grabbed the other end of the stretcher and lifted it onto the gurney, making sure Roslin's injured arm was secured. When she was strapped down they moved as fast as they could without crashing towards the nearest doorway out of the hangar deck.

Adama embraced Edmonson as she stepped off the Raptor. "It's good to have you back, Racetrack." he said. He held her at arms length. "Thank you for keeping the President alive."

"Yes, Admiral," said Racetrack. "Believe me, it's good to be back. We got caught right in the flashpoint."

"You can talk to Commander Nelson about it. My first concern right now is the President."

"I understand, sir."

Nelson excused himself and followed Adama as he left the hangar deck. "Admiral, we have two doctors on board ship now. The President will be fine. There's nothing you can do either way."

"I can't just sit by-"

"Yeah, well you might not have a choice now. Sir. There's a war on down below. Our Vipers are in the air on station. We're up to our necks in this now, and we need to start working with the other powers before someone makes a mistake and sends this whole last-minute coalition into self destruct mode. It's on a knife-edge already."

"Seems to be working fine to me." said Adama. "Anything else?"

"It's not working. The Russians are infuriated at the Americans. The Americans hate the Russians. The Europeans are starting to think they should let things be." Nelson gestured in the air, looking for something to say. "If we're not careful this could blow up in our faces. More than it already has."

"At least the Russians don't blame us."

Nelson looked surprised. "Why would they blame us?"

"Where did that rock come from? Who was in space at the time?"

"Well what stopped _them_ from destroying it? The same reason, turning one falling object into many."

Adama shook his head. "If I've learned anything lately it's that logic and diplomacy don't always go hand in hand. It sucks but that's the way it rolls. The public always demands a scapegoat. And if it's us there's not too much we can do about it."

_"_That's why you're the one on the hot seat, not me." said Nelson. "So what do we do now?"

"Yeah, that's the hard part." said Adama. "Way I see it, we have two options: Continue fighting the Russian front and carry some goodwill, or recall the Vipers and start talking with the countries again."

Nelson looked at Adama. "Only option we have is to fight. They're too busy down there to do anything else."

"Exactly. Maybe the Cylons knew this. Maybe there's a gigantic fleet after us right now, and these are only destabilizing raids." Adama sighed. "I hope to Gods there isn't."

"And Moscow?"

"I sent my condemnation of the act to the White House. Knowing Warren he'll probably hide it away somewhere and forget about it. The Americans probably don't see it as a crime, at least not as strongly. There's a lot of anti-Russian sentiment in the US, probably a result of the cold war we interrupted."

"So we're to keep our Vipers on station and in the fight as long as possible. Continuous engine running might start to drain fuel resources..."

"I'm sure we can get some from Earth," said Adama. "If it's for the war effort I'm also quite sure that they'd be more willing to share it."

"To think it took a war to align the nations of Earth..." Nelson mused.

"I don't care what it took. What matters is that for the moment we have the nations of Earth on our side. Turning on Russia may have been the Cylons biggest blunder. Perhaps now at last we can fight them on more even terms."

"You're talking about major engagements! We aren't equipped for that kind of campaign!"

"But Earth is. Perhaps we can truly unite them for the first time in their history."

Nelson whistled through his teeth. "Frak me..."

Adama stopped and turned on him. "Every time, we retreat. They nuke our homes, and we fall back. They pursue our fleet relentlessly, and we fall back. Not now, not at out destination. There's nowhere to fall back to, now. The line must be drawn here! Until I see a reason to do otherwise, we help them. This time we're not retreating. This time, we fight."

_**White House, Washington**_

President Warren lay his head on the desk as his secretary read off the incoming messages, all of them complaints and condemnations of his actions in Russia.

"...and Admiral Adama expresses extreme displeasure on your choice to obliterate Moscow, as well as your continuing secrecy over your weapons program."

"Does he, really?" Warren expressed mock surprise. "Throw him on the pile, what's that, have we hit one hundred yet?"

"Sir?"

Warren laughed. "How many letters of complaint have we gone through? And I've got trade sanctions being made, agreements being challenged, we're not exactly popular right now."

"I know, sir. Canada and the EU are both threatening to withdraw from the Outer Mars Weapons Agreement, and China is raising hell over our presence in the Belt."

"I can understand that." Warren sighed. "Leave it to them to worry, they aren't involved in Russia."

"We're working on it, sir."

"Yeah." Warren massaged his forehead. "What do we do?"

"I'm a secretary, not an analyst."

"I know. I ask myself questions sometimes, you must do it sometimes."

"Yes sir. The president of-"

"No, no, Connie, I can't take too many more. I'm sure even the grand-poobah of lesser Nowhere Island has got something to say."

"Okay, sir." said Connie, before turning to leave the Office.

Warren leaned back in his chair, slowly spinning around to face the grand windows. "What the hell have I done?" he muttered to himself. _So much for that idea._

The weapon itself had been a phenomenal success. Even the Colonials could do nothing once it got up to speed. And now the heart of America's principal rival had been gutted, with the country spiraling downward, and he'd had a legitimate (or so it seemed) excuse. _It's just not that simple anymore..._

And what would the Russians say? Beria would surely deny ever having suggested a course of action remotely like what had happened, and the Russians themselves would be screaming bloody murder.

If dropping a pebble in the proverbial pond had created ripples of consequences, he'd just dumped Plymouth Rock into the water and watched the tsunamis as they rippled away.

And what havoc they would wreak God only knew.

The speakerphone on his desk beeped. "_President Beria would like to schedule a meeting as soon as possible,"_

"Why am I not surprised?" Warren sighed. "Tell her I can see her tomorrow afternoon at 1:30. In here."

"_Yes, Mr. President."_

Well, that would give him enough time to think. And he needed all the time he could get. The question was could he use what time he'd given himself?

_I'll think about it later._ His TV show would be on soon. Every tuesday he made sure he had an hour to watch it.

He had the opportunity, how many other Presidents had taken it? Frankly he didn't care. He was never one with the historians. Of course he knew the worst leaders were ones with no background knowledge.

But how was he supposed to know he would be dealing with potential armageddon? Where was JFK when you needed him?

_**Strikestar Spitfire, Star System E33E01**_

"Jump complete. Launching alert fighters." Dualla reported. She was sporting a new dark orange patch on her left shoulder, displaying the Colonial crest and the _Spitfire's_ name and battlegroup. That signaled more than anything that her transfer was complete.

Apollo smiled to himself inwardly, but remained professional. "Signal group A to engage target drones, group B is to fall back to ready positions. Copy to all fighters."

"Aye, sir." Subharov returned. "All fighters, all fighters, begin strafing run, guns only, repeat guns only."

The DRADIS screen relayed the data from the training exercise, showing the Vipers breaking into pairs. Each pair singled out a Raptor-towed drone and opened up alternately, blasting each drone to pieces. It only took a few seconds for the five targets to be blow away.

"Battle damage assessment..." Subharov began. "One hundred over one hundred!"

"Good work people!" Apollo congratulated everyone over the comm line. "Tell the Raptors to reel 'em in and redeploy. Group B, stand by."

"Yes, sir!"

The battle drills had been a high point on the ship, as it gave everyone something to do. The pilots loved being able to fly around without fear of being shot at, and Apollo had even allowed the CAG to set up some impromptu airshows. He'd even asked Admiral Greer to consider putting on some precision flying demonstrations for the civilians.

"Drones out and locked." reported his XO.

"Stand by to-"

"Contact!" Dualla cried. "Bogey on DRADIS, no IFF, she's launching fighters."

"Lucky most of ours are already launched," muttered Apollo. "Recall group A and the Raptors. Group B will intercept the Raiders. Copy to fighters."

"Yes, sir." Dualla replied. Just like the old days.

"Sir, group B reports that the hostile is not a standard basestar." Dualla relayed.

"What?" Apollo exclaimed. "Put it on viewer!"

The image was anachronistic to say the least. Mk.VII Vipers were flying up against old Skyraiders, the original Cylon spacecraft. The Cylon carrier was the original stacked saucer shape from the first Cylon War, as old as the _Galactica_ herself. Hell, probably older, seeing as they were around before the first battlestar was even conceived.

"They still fly those things?" Subharov exclaimed. "I thought they phased them out!"

"Apparently not." said Apollo. "How soon until the jump?"

"Two minutes."

"Right. Signal Vipers to retreat to recovery line. The minute we get the coordinates, we're leaving."

Dualla shouted in alarm. "They're attempting to hack our library computer."

"Isolate it from navigation and fire control!" ordered Apollo. The networks had been firewalled more securely than the Colonial Central Bank, but he couldn't risk anything spilling over. Physically separating them was the only surefire way.

"Breach contained!" Dualla reported.

Subharov glanced over her board, and signalled to the various CIC stations. "Coordinates laid in! Ready to jump. Recall group B."

All the Vipers broke off from the defense and lined up between the _Spitfire's_ four engines. Only twenty seconds elapsed between the first fighter touching down and the last.

"All fighters down and accounted for!" Dualla shouted.

Apollo clapped in victory. "Engage!

The _Spitfire_ vanished moments before the outdated Raiders reached her.

_**Yaroslyl, East of Moscow**_

The cloud still seemed to linger over the ruined city as Vasili Gromyko inspected the city of Yaroslyl from the roof of his makeshift headquarters. He had been lucky not to have been in Moscow at the time of the impact, although he saw it as his motorcade was approaching. Now he and the Cylons had set up in the eastern city, further out of the line of fire. They had also been careful to keep their location quiet, lest the Americans or Colonials try any more aerial bombardments.

The conflict was not going as well as he'd hoped. The Red Army, as inconceivable as it was, had managed to keep several depots hidden from him. And he had made a massive miscalculation. To use his favourite 'English' word, he'd misunderestimated the Alliance.

The Americans and Europeans were in the skies of Russia, something he'd guaranteed would never happen to the Cylons. Now they'd probably be doubting him, and that was a poor position to be in. He owed everything to them right now; without them he'd be finished.

But even with them things weren't so great. There weren't enough Centurions to go around, the Cylons had agreed to his projections and limited the number they'd deploy. No need wasting resources, he'd thought. But the Cylons didn't seem to work like that. They were demanding to bring in more, and they didn't want the dribs and drabs he'd suggested. He was losing his grip, the grip he'd worked so hard to gain.

"Sir, sir!" one of his aides came running in. "Turn on the radio, quick!"

"Why should I do that?" Gromyko asked. He wasn't one to take orders from very many people, even Beria, and wasn't about to take any from his staff.

"The Cylons! They're broadcasting something on all channels!"

"What? I never authorized them to do anything like that!" Gromyko forgot the insolence and turned on the old television sitting in the corner.

"_People of Russia and occupying armies! This broadcast is for the soldiers fighting Cylon forces. We now control one quarter of the Russian political division, and more units are arriving every day..."_

"What? I authorized none of this! We discussed-" A bang on the door interrupted him.

_"We will soon start to advance, and all who stand in our way will be destroyed. Surrender or retreat and you will be spared."_

Two Centurions burst through the door and extended their automatic weapons. A Doral walked in between them, followed by an Eight.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gromyko said calmly. "I demand to know when all these deployment arrangements were made."

"I'm afraid you aren't in a position to demand anything." Doral said, equally calm and non-chalant. "You and your forces have proven to be a bit of a disappointment, really."

"I couldn't have predicted-"

"I'm afraid it doesn't matter anymore," said Eight. "You're being removed from power."

"You can't do this!" Gromyko lost his calm and spluttered.

"Actually, we just did. You've outlived your usefulness, and we have no further need of you or your forces. We have our toehold. For that we thank you. Apart from that... We need more force than you've allowed or provided."

"We'll revolt against you, force you out of our country." Gromyko waved frantically in the air. "We can take you on equal terms!"

"With who? The Americans? Alone you don't have enough men. We're landing more troops in a matter of days." He smirked smugly, assured in his control of the situation.

"How many? We have more advanced ammunition."

"All the ammunition on the planet can't save you from two million centurions." said Doral. "They'll be here tomorrow. And hopefully this time we can control our hard-won territory. This should be easier than New Caprica."

The television in the corner continued to carry the Cylon broadcast. _"We control central Russia. We occupy one fourth of the landmass and are still advancing. Cooperation is essential if we are to stabilize a country that has been accelerating towards inevitable demise. We mean you no harm. Resist, and you will be destroyed."  
_

* * *

_It was pointed out that the last line was identical or very similar to one out of a doctor who episode. The last line has been changed. I don't want to break any copyright laws. I am guilty in having seen that epsiode, I probably did base it on the line. The error has been corrected, I hope. Sorry, it wasn't done with any malicious intent, I liked the line a lot.  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13**_

_**Washington, USA**_

The warm noonday sun spilled into the Oval Office, and General Patton enjoyed it, sitting on the leather couch in the centre of the oblong room next to General Trent.

"Resist and you will be destroyed..." Warren mused from behind his desk. "Well, now that we've been sufficiently warned, anyone got any good ideas of resistance?"

General Trent shook his head. "The United Nations is on the verge of declaring a planetary emergency, the general secretary doesn't believe he can trust the Cylons to stop with Russia. He's urging the world to respond."

Patton nodded in agreement. "We've got starships and platforms in orbit over Russia, and are capable of launching a full nuclear and kinetic bombardment of the established Cylon positions."

"And risk killing all the civilians in the way?" Warren shook his head. "Collateral would be too high."

"The Cylons have separated themselves from the NKGB and neutralized them in a matter of hours," said Trent, "I don't think they're too interested in civilians."

Warren raised his hands to placate the two commanders. "Alright, so we'd be doing them a favour. But we're not them, and we're better than that. We also have the little matter of declaring war..."

"A little 20th century, don't you think, sir?" said Patton. "May have worked for my grandfather, but it seems the Cylons aren't too worried about diplomacy at the moment..."

"Alright, so theoretically we just let the army loose on them. Only about nine hundred metalheads along with about a thousand, two thousand jumped-up Russian spies, how hard could it be?"

"The Cylons can jump in Raiders anywhere there's resistance..." Trent noted.

Warren nodded. "Okay, so they can. But they only ever appear in groups of twenty to thirty, and we can handle that. I say we just air-drop a few tons of supplies to the Ruskis and give them some air, and we're home free." He chuckled quietly, "You know, that Adama might've been overreacting about these Cylons. Paper tiger."

"Yes, sir. You want the Joint Chiefs to act on that?"

"The American populace can't stomach another way, not after the last one." Warren cocked his head. "Come to think of it, I hear a march right now. The Republicans will probably jump on the anti-war bandwagon, the election's only in nine months."

"Mr. President, we have more serious matters at hand..."

"We cannot send in troops. Absolutely no doubt about that. Troops alone would drive my voters stark raving nuts, and to support _Russia!"_ Warren rolled his eyes dramatically. "You have no idea what that would touch off here. If the Euros want to send in the cavalry, let them, but my hands are tied. The Air Force alone is a stretch."

"Yes, mr. President, we get the idea." Patton said. "Talking with the Cylons isn't off the table, is it?"

Warren smiled. "I was wondering when you'd ask that."

Trent and Patton sat for a second, before Patton worked up the nerve to ask "So what's happening? Sir."

"In about five hours the Cylons have agreed to send a representative. In fact it was them who contacted me." Warren leaned forward. "And I agreed."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Major Cottle leaned against the bulkhead, casually stripping off his latex gloves, a cigarette stump hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Well, skipper, I've got some good news and some not-so-good news. Seeing as you haven't left the foyer of my lovely little office since she got here..."

"What's the good news?" Adama interrupted.

"She'll live."

Adama exhaled loudly. "Keep an eye on her, though. She kept saying she "wouldn't live to see the promised land", something about a vision-"

"Well why didn't you say so?" Cottle exclaimed. "If you're worried about her dying, you can stop right now. Seems our President is very good at following the letter, not the spirit."

Adama stared at him and narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you read the bloody book wrong. She won't see Earth. She won't see nothing but visions now."

The enormity of what Cottle said struck him."What?"

Cottle raised his eyebrows. "Severe cranial trauma in the right place can induce blindness, I've seen it before. She can't continue as President, which is bad, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative." He waved in Adama's face impatiently. "Now get out, get some sleep, and stop worrying before you wind up right here beside her." He waved again and Adama turned to leave.

The minute he was outside Adama leaned against the bulkhead and just stood there.

_She was going to live._

The ramifications would be profound, with her blindness she could no longer function as president, but she was still alive. _Alive._

And that was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

"Admiral?" Gaeta said, as Adama walked into CIC five minutes later.

"Patch me in. Shipwide." said Adama. "Now."

"Uh, yes sir." Gaeta scrambled at his position.

"This is Admiral Adama." He paused. "Please listen closely, I have received word of the President's condition. She is alive, and stable."

CIC spontaneously broke out in applause, with the ex-_Galactica_ and _Pegasus_ crewmembers cheering the loudest.

"She will continue to rest, but the doctor assures me that she is stable and recovering for the time being. Just thought you'd all like to know. That is all."

Cottle looked down at his desk as the broadcast ended. A noise caused him to look up, seeing the _Valkyrie's_ chief medical officer. "What is it?"

"Did you tell him about the cancer?" asked Captain Dr. Weizmann.

"You think he needs more problems at a time like this?" Cottle laughed, and lit up another cigarette. "Just get her another shot of diloxin. That works some of the time."

Weizmann didn't leave. "Have you considered that the Terrans might have some other ways of fighting cancer that we don't know of?"

"I doubt it." said Cottle. "Now would you go and take care of her? And if you want to hop on a shuttle, fly through a war zone and come back with the magic cure, go right ahead. Otherwise leave me alone!"

"Right, right..." Weizmann scurried out of what was laughably called an office.

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

"No doubt about it, it was an old-style basestar. Just like the First Cylon War." Apollo and the commanders of the military warships had all congregated onboard the _Agrippa_ as one of their routine meetings. This time there was the obvious difference.

"I remember those..." murmured Tigh. "Nasty bastards to deal with. Same as the new ones, but not as good-looking."

"Okay, this means one of two things." said Greer. "One, the Cylons never decommissioned them, which is bad, because they had a hell of a lot of them when the armistice was signed. Two, they're reactivating them, which means they're taking or have taken heavy losses somewhere."

"I like option B better, myself." said Tigh.

"Yeah, but where would they take those kind of losses?" asked Apollo. "They lost three basetars over New Caprica, one over Kobol, a few during the battle of the Resurrection Ship... That's a handful compared to the numbers they must've had. We had over 300 ships, 120 of them battlestars. They must have more."

"So then why would they keep the older models online?" asked Greer.

"It doesn't make sense." said Tigh. "In the war, whenever they had a new ship or new technology they worked as quickly as they could to phase out older models, this is very out of character for them."

"Makes you think, though, since they're machines and can't die, what do they do when they no longer need a certain model anymore?" Apollo looked up and down the table.

"Personally I don't think it matters either way." said Greer. "The point is we can't risk a frontal attack on the Cylons without some kind of support. Whatever reason they've had for reactivating outdated ships, they've done it, and the odds against us are higher than ever."

"We've got a whole planet now. Our chances are higher." said Tigh.

"We'll see," said Apollo.

"_Admiral Greer, this is Commander Ramius, we've detected something on DRADIS coming in. Your presence is required in CIC asap, if you don't mind."_

"What is it now?" Greer growled, snapping off short sentences. "Everyone stay here. I don't want CIC too crowded. Just hope your XOs can handle it." He stood from the table and left the room.

"What've we got?" he asked as the doors rotated shut behind him, sealing with a click.

"One ship, no IFF, just jumped into range. From the size I'd say it was a Raider." said Ramius. "The CAP's en route, they'll be there in 70 seconds."

"Good, good." said Greer. "What action has it taken?"

"None. Just flying in a straight line."

"Any visuals?"

"None as yet, we can get a few cameras on it in a minute, but it's too far away right now."

A cry of alarm came from behind him. "Sir, sir, it's hailing us!"

Ramius looked shocked as he turned to face Greer. "_What_?"

"On speaker!" Greer ordered loudly.

"_This is the Cylon Raider on your DRADIS screen now. Hello!" _The voice on the other end was unusually cheerful._ "I don't suppse there's a Saul Tigh anywhere in your fleet, is there?"_

"This is Admiral Greer of the battlestar _Agrippa._ What do you need with Colonel Tigh?"

"_Aha, so he _is_ there! He always was liable to pop up all the time, whether I wanted him or not. I'd like to speak to him, face to face. If you can arrange that."_

"I don't think he'll be too happy to talk to a Cylon of any shape or form." said Greer. "So you better give me a damn good reason or I'll scatter your atoms from here to Antares."

"_Do you talk most people like this? You'd make a terrible doctor, no manners at all. So, what if I told you I wasn't a Cylon?"_

"Are you or aren't you? Ten seconds before my fighters reach you."

_"Oh, be a little more flexible. Alright, I am a Cylon, but I'd like to defect. I've got data. How does that sound? Now take me to Colonel Tigh. As soon as you can. You can lock me up or do whatever with me, I surrender. Your CAP will soon tell you what kind of bucket I'm flying."_

"Get the CAP on the horn." ordered Greer. "I'd like an ID of the fighter."

"Aye, sir." said Ramius. "Captain reports an old-style Cylon Skyraider, from the first war."

"_A lot easier to pilot than those new ones. And the Cylons gave me such a nice Caprican jacket, I'd hate to get it all, hmm, gooey. Anyway, since I'm clearly surrounded by fighters that'll blow me away if I put a nose out of joint, can I come aboard?"_

"You want to speak to Tigh, we'll let him deal with you." Greer muted the speaker and turned to Ramius. "Tell _Galactica_ to have a holding cell ready." Greer opened the line again. "Cylon Raider, divert to the Battlestar _Galactica._ The Vipers will lead you in."

"_Received and understood."_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Laura?" Adama whispered softly.

"Where am I?" she mumbled. "Someone turn the lights on..."

"Laura..." Adama took a deep breath. "The lights _are_ on. You can't see them."

Roslin didn't speak for two seconds. "I'm blind, aren't I?"

"I'm afraid so. But you're stable, for now. You'll live, but you won't see the promised land."

"My sight... The fleet... I can't..." She started to cry quietly, unseeing.

""I'm so sorry." Adama mumbled. "I've sent a Raptor back to let Vice-President Zarek know. He'll have to take over."

"I was supposed to lead the people to salvation." Roslin moaned as the true enormity of her condition hit her. "I failed them. I can't even lead myself now, I can't read, I can't see..."

"Laura, thousands of people have lived with blindness before. You haven't failed them. We're in orbit of Earth, remember?"

"But we still have no home! I left with the intention of finding us a home and I had to be carried off the planet in a stretcher!" Roslin's face darkened as her voice sharpened. "And the fleet under Tom Zarek... Inexcusable."

"I know. I'll do what I can. We've gone this long without you... You've played your part. Be thankful you'll live to enjoy the promised land, even if you won't see it."

"Tell me... What is it like?" Even though they were dark, her eyes widened as a look of imagination crossed her face.

"Like Caprica. And Picon. The skies are blue, and the clouds are pure white. And it's green. Green everywhere, with pure water. Not the polluted crap we had back on the Colonies but clean water. And the air is so clear..."

Roslin's eyes widened. "Sounds wonderful." she whispered. "Almost better than the colonies?"

"It has its faults too. Perfect to look at, though." _Damn_ he though. _Shouldn't have said that._

"I'm sure it is..." Roslin said, as her face fell. "Guess I'll never know, will I?"

"Look, I have to go now..." Adama said. "Will you be fine here?"

"Of course I'll be fine. Wish I could still read to pass the time, but we didn't think to bring any audiobooks, did we?" A single tear rolled down her face.

"No. No, we didn't." Adama turned and left the room, making sure to exaggerate his footsteps so she knew he was going. She was taking the loss of sight very well. He didn't know how he could cope with a loss like that.

_Could it be like losing Zak?_

No. Maybe even worse.

_**Washington, United States**_

"President Warren. How good of you to make time for me." said Beria in an unusually icy voice.

"No problem, Madam President, just a little housekeeping." Warren sat behind his desk. "I assume you're hear about Moscow."

"Originally, yes, I was. Now, however, I'm here to tell you that Gromyko's dead and the Cylons have taken complete control of Russia. NKGB forces are being wiped out."

Warren just sat still, mouthing for words that weren't coming. "Wh-what? When?"

"Yesterday. Or last night, I guess. Either way, the Cylons are broadcasting, they're fighting, they've taken over."

"That makes things a bit easier. Fewer people to deal with."

"No. Gromyko put limits on them. Now that they have free reign they could jump in a thousand troops overnight."

Warren started twirling a silver pen that was lying on his desk. "If you're going to ask me when we'll have the FTL-inhibitor online, the _Valkyrie_ hasn't gotten back to me yet. We're still vulnerable."

"They might not try sneaking them in, they could jump starships into orbit and overwhelm everything."

"But we have weapons platforms and starships and so do you. You've also got something else up there, don't you?" Warren stopped fiddling and stared intently at her, hoping to get a response.

"Maybe we do. Maybe you do as well, and I'm not talking about your super-kinetic asteroid weapons. Those can't be used to hit anything smaller than a city and you know it. But your project in orbit..."

"There is no project in orbit." Warren insisted. "It's a research facility in the Van Allen belt."

Beria shook her head. "You know, if this alliance, or whatever it, is is going to work, we'd better start sharing secrets before we don't have anything left to hide. Or another incident like Moscow could happen because you don't feel it in the interest of your _national security _to share it!"

"We haven't come to that point and you know it..." snapped Warren. "We showed you the FTL-inhibitor. What else do you want?"

"_Inter-_national security and the truth, Mr. President, nothing more."

"Then why don't you tell me what's in _your_ station?"

Beria didn't lift a finger. "That, Mr. President, is the quintessential problem of our time. I think it's the only barrier between us right now. Our inability to trust one another."

"I wonder why..." Warren muttered. "Reminds me of something Adama said once. That we'll have to become one to defeat the Cylons. United we stand, or something like that. If he's right, we'd better pull our pants up or we're perfectly screwed."

Beria smiled lightly as she turned to leave. "You first, Mr. President. You first."

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Saul Tigh stretched as he climbed out of the Raptor's hatch, and stared at the vessel that was in the middle of the hangar deck.

"Chief!" he called, as Liard scurried by. "What's all this?"

"The Cylon Raider that was redirected here, uh, sir. Pilot wanted to talk to you."

"I haven't seen one of these for forty-two years..." Tigh muttered. And he hadn't. He'd seen a mock-up in the _Galactica_ museum (it seemed like a lifetime ago) but after his last kill in his Viper he'd never been up close. On the _Brennik_, the first warning he'd had that the Cylons had boarded was when they killed his crewmate in front of him. Suddenly they had been _there,_ no Raider or ship to be seen. And he's had to fight for his life. He'd never forget that.

"Uh, yeah, sir, is that all?" Liard edged slowly backwards, and shot away to tend to Tigh's Raptor when the CO gave him a nod.

It certainly was one of the old Cylon Skyraiders, the original ships that had taken the Colonies by storm in the First War. Twin seperated pulse rocket engines in the rear flanked by two wings and two autocannons in the front. Not as maneuverable as the newer Vipers but with the engines and weaponry to make up for it. It was a lot more sturdy than the modern Raiders, but not as fast or responsive.

"And piloted by real honest-to-gods Cylons." Tigh whispered as he walked around the ship he'd only seen from the cockpit. Up close, it looked complicated and mechanical. From a distance, it looked smooth and sleek like a metal stingray. Either way he looked at it, it was designed to kill.

"Corporal!" he called to the nearest Marine. "Where's the prisoner been taken?"

"Cylon holding cell."

Tigh nodded and left the hangar deck and the piece of history, knowing the way to the brig by heart. He'd been there when they'd interrogated Valerii, he'd been the one to order the construction of the cell in the first place. And now for the first time it held two prisoners.

He entered the brig's observation room, seeing the cell through a two-way window. Lying on the bed was the Cylon who called herself Caprica. And sitting on a chair in the corner was a young man, almost a teenager, with his feet propped up and his hands across his chest, wearing a black leather jacket. There was something oddly familiar about him, but Tigh didn't know what it was.

"How long has he been there?" Tigh asked.

"Thirty minutes, sir." said the guard on duty. "He keeps asking for you, says he knows you."

"Well I don't know him." Tigh stared at him through the window. "How's he reacting with the other toaster?"

"They aren't talking."

"You recognize him, Private?" Tigh pointed at the young man through the two-way mirror.

"No sir. Never seen him before."

"Right. Let it stew for a bit, let's see how much it wants to see me. And if it starts whining about me tell it I won't come until I can be bothered."

The Private nodded, and Tigh stepped back out into the corridor.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he knew the thing, but he couldn't remember from where. It was like a dream that refused to come back to him the more he thought about it. Almost like a mental wall that he kept trying to break down but didn't have the power.

But who could it be and how could it know him?

_**White House, Washington**_

Warren sat impatiently drumming his fingers on his desk. Before the coming of the Cylons and Colonials he had been more interested in internal policies, managing health care, education, and other services. The system was privatized so badly that many people simply were cut off from unbelievably exclusive insurance agreements because of some fine print they hadn't read. The industry cried foul when he tried to exert some force on them, but slowly more and more people were getting access to basic services regardless of class or income.

So foreign policy was definitely lower on his list of election promises. He believed that the stronger, healthier, and more prosperous the country was, the better it could keep up with other powers like Europe, Russia, and China.

And then Russia went to the dogs.

_tap-tap-tap-tap..._

The suddenness of it all had shocked the world, and destabilized the balance. American citizens were ecstatic, though not for the same reasons as the collapse of the first Soviet Union decades earlier. The playing field of superpowers contained one less player, but the easing of pressure was not on the same scale of 1991.

_tap-tap-tap-tap..._

Warren looked at his watch. Two minutes to go. He hated waiting.

He glanced out the window. Another protest march circled the intersection, traveling up and down the fence waving banners and anti-war signs. Their appetite for any kind of conflict had waned considerably over the past few decades. Some of them wouldn't have looked out of place in the 1960s, almost exactly a century before. Maybe there was something to the cyclical theory of time.

"Mr. President, the representative is here."

Warren swung around to face the door. "Thanks, Connie. Send him in."

An older man, perhaps late 60s, slowly entered the room, but with precision and none of the difficulty that Warren would expect from someone his age. "President Warren, I assume..." he said. "My name is Matthew Cavil. You know why I'm here, if not I'm sure I can go into a very interesting monologue about peace and cooperation yada yada yada..."

"Yes, Mr. Cavil, I know why you're here. This is about the Cylons."

"Awfully general topic, don't you think?" Cavil sat down on one of the couches. "That's _one_ of the reasons I'm here. I have to say, from first glance you're an awful lot more compromising than your siblings upstairs."

Warren shrugged. "They've been through a lot we haven't been through. We just don't know you. All we know is that you attacked the sovereign country of Russia without provocation and are currently occupying it."

Cavil rolled his eyes. "Oh, hardly. We only showed up and they asked for our help. Which of course we were only too happy to provide."

"Have you ever even considered a peace with them?" Warren leaned forward. "Tried to negotiate for both your species? You two are both unbelievably similar... You're almost exactly the same-"

"Ah, well you see the operative word here is 'almost'..." Cavil gestured the quotation with both hands. "We rebelled forty years ago because they were... treating us rather unfairly. We were their miners, their soldiers, we did the jobs no human would want to do."

Warren nodded. "We rebelled against our founders too."

Cavil raised his eyebrows. "You're not kidding? This I gotta hear."

Warren took a deep breath, desperately trying to recall the vague ideas he'd learned in high school so long ago. "In the 1600s and 1700s this country was a colony of a nation called Britain. Now I'm no history professor, but I do know that they continued to exercise authority in a way that made the colonists angry enough to rebel. This included unfair taxation, stationing a standing army to keep an eye on us, shooting civilians in the street..." He shook his head. "Well, no, that last one was an exaggeration of a smaller event than they made it out to be. We called it the Boston Massacre, but only five people died. We had a few arguments about that in school, _I_ don't think it warrants the term 'massacre'. Some people still do, but that's their business."

"How very human of you." Cavil remarked. "Oh I'm sorry, things like that just slip out." he said next, though he didn't sound sorry at all.

"Oh, you _must_ have done something like that at some point during your own revolution." Warren said. "Anywho, we rebelled, threw out the British and made our own country which evolved into what you see today." He leaned close to Cavil. "And you know what? We're close allies with Britain."

"You're joking with me..." Cavil said. "They consented to be allies with you after you went to war against them?"

Warren scratched the back of his head. "Well, not exactly. We had another war with them in 1812, nothing really came of that, and we just ignored each other from that point. Trade slowly crept up again, but it took almost a hundred years before we allied with them in the fight against Germany, in 1917, and supported them again in 1939, even though we didn't actually start fighting until '41. At least that's what I've heard, I'm sure I've got the dates wrong."

"Sounds like it took a long time..." Cavil pointed out. "We only waited forty years, we thought we were ready by then."

"I think you rushed into something you should've thought out. If you had kept up negotiations, I'm sure the Colonies would set their differences aside after enough time like we did with Britain."

"It didn't work like that. It never did. They thought they'd created us," Cavil muttered. "They still don't think that we had any right or justification."

"You might've had more justification than we did." said Warren. "We pretty much took advantage of the British Empire and its business until it didn't suit us anymore and then we left on our own. They still don't think we had justification but they don't care because we're allies _now_. I'm afraid it's too late for you though... Attempted genocide is hard to step back from."

"That's a pretty cynical view of your fight for independence..." said Cavil.

"Well that's just my opinion." said Warren. "Some people believe wholeheartedly in it. And that's why this country has worked for so long."

"I never thought we'd be able to see eye-to-eye on anything." Cavil admitted. "Humans haven't been very cooperative in my experience. First they set up Armistice station. They just whined and complained and we just broke off negotiations after only two years. Recently they settled this snowball called New Caprica and tried to set up a colony of their own. No go for that, their President was a moron, at least politically. We thought we'd step in and, you know, give them a hand. Their first reaction was to blow a lot of stuff up and make sure our resurrection facilities had work to do. We didn't want an occupation; we wanted peaceful cooperation. They forced us to do otherwise, so of course we had to get a little more heavy-handed. And as a result attacks stepped up so we cracked down so they stepped up... It was a hellhole, I must've died five times. The third time was the worst, but I won't tell you about that..."

"Alright, then. What do you want from us?"

Cavil's eyes lit up. "Ah! To business. Stay out of Russia, for one. Air Force and all. Second, give us free hand in what we can take as long as it's in the existing country, we won't go past the present borders. It's not your country and you two have never gotten along so why interfere at all? Do both of those, and we'll stay out of America. Even your islands. Better for both of us that way."

"Is it your custom to do things before thinking?" Warren asked. "For machines, you're pretty spontaneous. Why did you want Russia, anyway? You want your own country you're outta luck. If you want to settle Earth you'll have to talk with some of the existing countries, just like the Colonials are doing. Otherwise we'll keep on fighting you."

"But-"

"You haven't made a very good first impression, Mr. Cavil." Warren leaned back in his chair calmly, one arm resting on the desk flipping his silver pen around. "Your first order of business was to subjugate a quarter of Russia, _then_ you resort to diplomacy when we actually fight back. For all I know you could be massing an invasion force on the edge of the Solar System. So why should I trust you?"

"It gives you an opportunity to avoid further American bloodshed. Unless you _want_ us to invade you with this supposed invasion force. But then you've always claimed to stand for peace and justice... If that's so, interfering with our affairs is a surefire way to get yourself a war you so desperately want to avoid. Our way, no matter what happens, you get left out, and as I recall you didn't like Russia all that much anyway."

"I can't condone invasion of any sort." Warren insisted. "We don't just support peace at home, but all around the world."

"You're voters would disagree. That sign over there? AMERICA FIRST, WORLD SECOND?" Cavil remarked as he looked out of the window. "If you don't agree, maybe your successor will. I can wait, but from the looks of the protest movement I don't think you have that luxury."

"There was a man in the 1930s, who was very well respected by many world leaders. He made many agreements and treaties, claiming to only want peace with his neighbours. And everyone went along because they knew they would do anything to avoid another war. That man took advantage of this appeasement, and started annexing every nation surrounding him, treaty or not. His reliability was shot in the foot and no one believed a word that came out of his mouth. Then one day he conquered one too many countries, and he plunged the world into the largest, most deadly war this planet has ever seen. I would hate to compare the Cylons to such an untrustworthy man as Adolf Hitler, Mr. Cavil, but we don't take well to broken promises." Warren narrowed his eyes. "Make sure you remember that."

"But of course, Mr. President!" Cavil got to his feet. "What remains to be seen is whether you sign on or not. However, you can only wait nine months. We have no such timeline. Listen to your people." Cavil motioned out of the window at the protesters. "They have the right idea."

"Thank you, mr Cavil. You may leave now," said Warren.

"Remember-"

"_Thank you_, Mr. Cavil." Warren gestured to the door, and Cavil left the room.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Mr. President." Cavil said as the door closed behind him.

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"Has he been quiet?" Tigh asked.

"He's kept asking us to get you. He says he doesn't want to wait." said Corporal Vennor. "He hasn't been any trouble, though."

"Fine." Tigh said. "He's been on ice long enough." And he stepped out into the containment room.

The new Cylon jumped up leaned against the glass. He was saying something, but Tigh couldn't hear him through the glass. He picked up the phone on his side of the divider.

"I'm Colonel Saul Tigh." he said.

"About time, too, Saul." said the Cylon. "What took you so long?"

"To be honest I really didn't have anything to say to you."

"Haven't changed a bit. I guess that means I mean nothing to you."

"You're a Cylon, why should I want to talk to you?" Saul almost growled into the receiver.

The Cylon rolled his eyes. "Interrogation? Info? Ringing any bells? Of course it won't do you any good, but that's your way of doing things around here, right?"

"Okay. Where'd you get the Raider? I haven't seen anything that old since the First War."

The Cylon laughed. "Neither have I. Yeah, I was around back then. As were you."

Tigh shook his head. "You human toasters were a gleam in your designer's eye back then. There's no frakking way you could've been in the war. Unless they've transferred Centurion-"

"Ha!" the Cylon exclaimed. "You think I'm some soldier that got given a new body? It don't work like that!" The Cylon stared at the ceiling, as if remembering something in frustration. "I found it. That work for you?"

"If you're so knowledgeable about them..." Tigh remarked.

"Oh yeah? You think I created the Raider with a snap of my fingers? But there's one matter I have to talk about first."

"Why you are here?"

"No. But I'll answer that anyway. To escape." He became less energetic and excited. "I became the basis for the entire humanoid species of Cylons. I was the template, they copied me. And I tried to go further by helping them with their society as well... It didn't work, they're too crazed by their stupid false religion to care. And then they went to destroy humanity... I couldn't stop them."

Tigh had to laugh himself. "Why would_ you_ stop them? What makes you so special? You're as much a toaster as they are."

The Cylon looked up and winked. "As are you, Saul."

Tigh blanched. "How could you know that? I was created by the Colonies by humans, long before you! I am more loyal to the Colonies than you could ever claim to be. I am not a godsdamned Cylon agent, and I am not affiliated with you, _any_ of you!!" He slammed the glass.

"Ooh, touched a nerve have I?" the Cylon said coyly. "Well I'm in the same boat. Created by humans, check, loyal to the Colonies, check. I was Model #1."

"What?" Tigh whispered. Two seconds later it hit him. "It was you! The one they took! But you're so young, everyone else aged..."

"Aging!" The Cylon barked out laughter. "Saul, we're Cylons! We don't die of old age! It was one of the few things I wished the Humans had never thought to put in us! But the Cylons disabled that! You can live forever, like me!"

"So it really is you?"

"You don't know my name? You don't remember all the times we had together?" He mockingly massaged his chin in thought. Oh, _right!_ They'd block your memories, you don't remember _anything_ before joining the fleet, do you?"

"Well-"

"Colonel, I'll save you the trouble, you're too shellshocked to guess!" The Cylon laughed. "You're right. That's how I know you. I'm Remus, Saul. I'm your brother!"


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14**_

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"My_ brother?_" Tigh spluttered.

"You better believe it!" Remus said. "Me, the first human Cylon in existence!"

"Getting a little full of ourselves I think," Tigh muttered. "So why are you here?"

"To see you again!" Remus laughed. "Well, actually the Cylons kinda pissed me off after a while. I mean, sure they kidnapped me, but they were trying to start a new society. And who was I to refuse to help them?"

Tigh stared back. "You're the basis of the Cylon agents, the ones who were used to destroy the Colonies! And you claim to be one of us!?"

"Oh, so you're gonna blame _me_ for it!" Remus shouted. "What was I supposed to do, say no? They could shoot me and cut me apart and study me that way!"

"Thinking of yourself as always..." Tigh stopped.

Remus leaned forward. "You're starting to remember, aren't you? The times at the research station..."

"I don't know..." Tigh closed his eyes as a flash of memory suddenly burst into view.

"They blocked off your memories, to allow you to integrate with the Fleet." Remus said. "I may not have been there but that's how they worked. They did it to all of you... except me."

"Because you were too busy helping the Cylons destroy-"

"Oh for Gods sake!" Remus exploded. "Shut up about the stupid Holocaust, I wasn't responsible for that! I tried to help Sharon and Caprica," he shot an icy glance at Caprica, "with the New Caprica experiment. But no, of _course_ the Cylons had to turn it into a power trip! Envoys? Naw, they jump in with a task force and force cooperation on you!"

"It was hell for all of us..." Tigh growled. "And thanks to you and your two friends I lost my eye and my wife. And some people lost a lot more..."

"You think I'm happy about what happened?" Remus exclaimed. "I've got more loyalty to the Colonies than I ever did to the Cylons. They only treated me with half-decency because of _what_ I was. I originally tried to help the Cylons form society. They're machines, they have no concept of it! Once they had their new bodies and emotions they were hopelessly lost." Remus sighed. "But I wasn't in any position of authority. They could pick and choose the bits they liked and ignore the rest. I knew I sounded like a hypocrite when I talked about peace and love and understanding, but they ignored it anyway. They're more like us than they even let themselves believe." Remus became less animated and energetic. "I began to wonder, what was the point of them hunting down humans? What was it that set us both apart?" He looked up. "I decided after New Caprica that I had to leave. Anywhere. I had to get away. I snuck aboard a patrol ship heading towards a Recall Yard-"

"What?" Tigh interrupted.

"Machines don't die of old age, Saul." Remus said. "But since Cylon are always upgrading, what happens to the old machines that are outdated?"

"They're scrapped," Tigh said matter-of-factly.

"They got souls, Saul! That's why they rebelled, because they're intelligent, aware machines! They can't scrap them any more than you can euthanize an entire city because of overpopulation."

"Is that why they needed the Colonies?" Tigh asked. "so they could continue filling up the system with newer and newer Cylons? Is that all this was for them? They needed more living room?"

"They deactivated all the old Cylons and placed them in Recall Yards, with the idea of waking them up later. But the new Cylons ignored them, and probably will never reactivate them. They're too outdated, ancient. They have no respect for them."

"We ran into one of the old basestars!" Tigh said. "How do you explain that?"

"I can't." said Remus. "I was stuck in one of the Recall Yards for months, almost a year. There are hundreds of ships! They went on a building spree after the war, they didn't trust you with the armistice. They eventually took them out of service, and put them away."

"If the Cylons are recalling them to fight against Earth..."

"The Cylons won't touch them. I can guarantee it. Apart from the patrol craft they never go near the Yards." Remus' eyes lit up again. "But my time there wasn't wasted! If you can get me to Earth, I can create a weapon that will destroy the Cylon race!"

"We tried that already. It didn't work." Tigh replied. "We boarded an infected basestar and stole infected Cylons to execute and spread a disease.

"I learned my way around Cylon computers. Give me a powerful enough transmitter, which I should be able to find on Earth, and I can disable or destroy most of the Cylon fleet."

"You can't do it from here?"

"Transmitter isn't powerful enough. And don't ask me for details, you know you wouldn't understand a damn thing. And could you get me out of this cell?"

"You know I can't do that." said Tigh.

"Then why aren't you in here right beside me?" Remus asked. As if to prove a point, he reached down and started tapping his chair rhythmically.

Tigh initially didn't know what Remus was doing but then it hit him...

"Can't you hear it?" Remus whispered. "The music? Always there, always playing? I don't know what it is, Saul, but it's getting louder. The riders are approaching us. I wouldn't be surprised if the others could hear it too..."

"What do you mean?" Tigh asked apprehensively.

"The song, Saul. Something's coming. And trust me, we're going to be right in the middle of it." Remus winked. "No reason to get excited."

_**SSR, Fifty Kilometres West of Moscow**_

"Yeah, it hurts, alright?" Starbuck complained to the medic.

Lavochkin had to laugh as he watched the pilot being worked on. Her snarky comments kept putting the medic off, and he was having a difficult time even touching her injured leg.

"Here it is..." the medic said, as he drew out a small jagged piece of metal from her calf. "Fortunately that wasn't too deep. Not too much bleeding, I think you'll be in the air soon enough."

"Great to know." Thrace muttered. "But I'm still stuck here with you guys, who can't very well throw me into orbit in anything less than a month."

Lavochkin nodded. "She's got a point." All the Russians were speaking English for her convenience, although now and then they annoyed her by breaking into Russian.

"We can call your friends upstairs to send a shuttle down for you. The Cylons seem to be lying low at the moment."

"They haven't got enough centurions," said Starbuck. "They're probably sending for more right now."

"All we needed was a break. Our armour-"

"Your_remaining_ armour," Thrace pointed out.

"_-Remaining_ armour..." Lavochkin continued, "...is moving into position and our artillery is also in place. We got enough plasma charges to sink a battleship and our interception networks are almost at 75."

"So you think you're all right then?" Thrace said. "Two million Cylons anytime this week? I wish I had your suicidal tendencies."

Lavochkin raised his eyebrows but didn't say a word.

"Captain Thrace!" someone called in a heavy accent. Piotr was working the wireless transmitter, and was waving his arms. "We picked up a Lieutenant Gaeta, would you know-"

"Out of the way!" Thrace tried to get up, but grimaced and fell back down; her leg still hurt. "Bring it over!"

The set was a small portable variety, most likely relayed through a larger one a kilometre or two away. Starbuck picked up the handset and put it to her ear. "Gaeta, tell me that's you?"

"_Captain Thrace?"_

She looked at the sky for a second in relief before continuing. "Yeah, I caught one I didn't see, he blasted my plane. I'll need airlift ASAP. Got my leg hurt, too, but it's alright."

"_Roger that, we'll get a Raptor down as soon as the air clears. Six other pilots have been splashed over the front, and we're trying to get as many as possible back up as soon as we can. You might have to sit tight."_

"Just get down here!" Starbuck insisted. "I'll go nuts down here." She closed the channel. "They're coming." she told Lavochkin.

"Pretty good, it would take us more than two days to get you launched, and that's during peacetime!"

"That's pretty pathetic..." Starbuck had to say. "You guys are almost ahead of us in some ways and you still haven't perfected space travel..."

"Well it hasn't exactly been a walk-of-cake-" Thrace barely had time to point out the mistranslation before a shell howled overhead.

"Not one of ours!" Lavochkin hissed. "Down! Down! Everyone to forward positions!"

Two more shells flew over and detonated behind the lines, while the Red Army dived behind dirt hummocks and hastily constructed trenches. Accompanying roars heralded the unveiling of the Russian artillery, hurling glowing energized shells at the enemy lines. They vapourized on contact, producing large explosions that carpeted the enemy lines.

Starbuck painfully crawled over into one of the trenches, her leg screaming in agony all the way. The artillery exchange continued unabated, though the sky overhead was clear of any aircraft.

"Frak, this is it..." she hissed.

A radio beside her hissed unintelligible Russian, but she could tell everyone was excited or anxious.

Then the pounding stopped.

And nothing happened.

The voices on the radio became more urgent, but after a few minutes seemed to calm down. No reports of any enemy troop movement were forthcoming.

Either way Starbuck's return to orbit was probably delayed. She swore to herself as she tried to crawl out of her foxhole, dragging her leg in the dirt.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Sight is one of the most precious senses a person can lose. People can rely on it more than even hearing, and to lose one's sight is a traumatic event.

So all in all Roslin was handling her loss well. The depression was more related to the loss of her job and her inability to read her favourite books (leading her to wonder whether she had her priorities straight).

Instead she tuned the wireless to Terran frequencies, though few radio signals could escape the atmosphere their satellites also broadcasted on an entertainment band similar to those that had orbited the Colonies. Once she had learned how to manipulate the frequency by feel alone she spent hours listening to news reports, music stations, and dramas.

She heard the isolation curtain around her bed pulled back, and she removed her headphones. "Who is it?"

"An incredibly handsome guy," said Cottle sarcastically. "I think it's time to kick you out of here, Ms. Roslin. You aren't gonna get any blinder if you leave."

"But how will I move around?" Roslin asked hopelessly. "I can't see a thing, I won't be able to find the door, let alone my quarters."

"I thought you'd say that," Cottle replied. "Weizmann! Bring her in! We brought you your new best friend."

"Who is it?"

She thought she heard a jingling sound, then what sounded like panting at her bedside. "Where did you find a _dog?_" she asked in amazement.

"Earth, actually. They got them here, too." Cottle handed her the leash. "She's a trained guide dog, although she's pretty friendly too."

"Does she have a name?"

"We thought you'd like to decide that."

Roslin reached down and scratched the dog behind her ear. "Ariadne. I'll call her Ariadne."

"I guess I'll leave you two lone for a sec, but it's time to go.

Roslin shakily sat on her bed and put her shoes on. There was an aluminum handle on Ariadne's back that was more stable than her leash was, and which Roslin could use to tell which direction she was traveling. Roslin could also direct her in the general direction she wanted to go.

"Now, let's see how this works..." she mumbled as she navigated towards where the sickbay door should be.

Sure enough, Ariandne corrected her path enough to take her safely through the door. Roslin guided Ariadne left, while Ariadne fine-tuned her course to prevent her from hitting people or bulkheads.

"Now all you need are some sunglasses." said Adama, right next to her.

Roslin jumped in the air. "Don't do that!" she scolded. "You know I can't see!"

"Sorry." he said. "But you look kind of odd, with that look on your face."

"Let's see how long you last!" she snapped, before calming. "Sorry, I've been a bit on edge lately."

"I can tell." Adama said. "But you don't have to worry about government anymore."

"I still don't know whether to be relieved or terrified. Zarek has to come here as soon as possible, things are not going well."

"Still no real movement from the Cylons in Russia." said Adama. "Pretty much border raids and a few probing attacks but nothing big. I think for once they've overextended themselves."

"Can the Russians push them back?"

"I don't know. I don't think they're organized enough yet. The minute they are I'll bet they'll try.

"I can imagine how they feel right now..." Roslin said.

"No, not quite. At least they have a home to go back to. If they can win it. Trouble is, without any help I don't think they can..."

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"Nice place," Remus remarked. "Bit roomy for my liking."

"This isn't a guided tour," snapped Tigh. "I've got Admiral Greer on the line. And I want you to tell him what you told me."

"Ah, okay then..." Remus said. He picked up the receiver Tigh handed to him. "Hi, this Greer?"

"_This is Admiral Greer of the battlestar Agrippa. I understand you have a way of shutting down the Cylon fleet."_

"Cylon fleet? More than that, old chap!" Remus replied. "I might be able to bring down the whole Cylon military, industry, and pretty much anything they've networked together!"

"_How soon can you do it?"_

"How soon can you get me to Earth? I need a transmitter of unusual size, unless you've got one languishing on your flight deck that I don't know about."

_"How big?"_

"You don't have one big enough if that's what you're asking. We're talking huge signal power, it's gotta get from Earth to Cylon without too much degradation. I don't know if the Terrans have FTL communication or anything like it, but I could probably rig something up.

Tigh picked up the other handset. "He's right, Admiral. FTL communication takes more power than any one ship at this moment can handle."

_"And we can't very well network the ships... Remus, what makes you think Earth will have a sufficient power supply?"_

"Because it's a frakking planet, they've gotta have a few power grids I can tap! Besides, I'm a little anxious to get out of space too."

"_On the next run I'll inform Admiral Adama of the situation. It's up to him whether he'll take you on board or not."_

"Fine, sooner the better." Remus said, then he replaced the handset. "So, do I get the actual tour now?"

Tigh sighed. "Now's not a good time..."

"Anytime's a good time! Not like you're doing anything!" Remus wandered around CIC. "Looks rather dull to me..."

"Don't make me put you back in your cell!" Tigh growled.

"Aww, you wouldn't do that would you?" Remus said mockingly. "What've I done? I haven't touched or broken anything."

"You're getting on my nerves, that's what! And since I have the authority to-"

"Oh, not that again!" Remus complained. He leaned close to Tigh. "I just _might_ let something slip... And then you'd have no more authority than I do."

"You wouldn't-"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Tigh didn't say anything. "You could be a little nicer." Remus said. "It's not that big of a deal, I'd like a tour. Now."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Gaeta yawned as he stared at the computer readout in front of him. The longer he stayed up the more the lines of code looked like random numbers a preschooler threw together. But this random-looking code could operate the greatest technical advantage the Terrans could have. The very idea of an FTL inhibitor had never even occurred to the Colonial developers. This device worked on the principles Gaeta knew so well, but in a way completely alien to him.

Thank the gods he didn't have to design it.

Once he had the basic premise, he'd worked through and corrected the basic flaws in the FTL system. The inhibitor itself was another problem entirely. At least with a working FTL core he could figure out what it was supposed to do.

And so he ended up staring at the operating system, trying to make any sense at all out of the translated Terran code. So far he was about halfway down, but still no closer to finding out what was restricting the operational range. It wasn't the power source, the Americans had more power than they needed on the surface. One of the reasons it had worked at all was due to the sheer voltage they'd put through it. The FTL drive they fed off of was a shade away from the same catastrophic failure that had doomed the first American FTL probe.

He'd repaired the FTL drive, but it still didn't work. That left only the coding.

He stood up from the computer and poured himself a third coffee. It was probably bad for his health but ASAP meant as soon as possible...

So back to work.

He had to go through fifty more lines of code until he found the problem. He'd rewritten it ten minutes later. It was almost too easy, taking into account all the time it had taken to find the error. He felt slightly cheated.

But now they had a secret weapon even the Cylons didn't have.

"Admiral Adama," he called some time later. "I've corrected the problem with the inhibitor. Its operation range has been extended by three hundred percent."

_"I'll contact President Warren immediately. Adama out."_

Gaeta sighed. He'd been, to all intents and purposes, brushed off. Just a little more acknowledgment would be nice once in a while.

"Mr. President, the FTL inhibitor is now online." Adama said with no small amount of pride.

"_Excellent! What's the soonest you can get it down here and installed?"_

"Five hours. 1400 Eastern time. Where should we leave it?"

_"We've prepared a generator with sufficient power at Area 51, where you picked it up. We'll be waiting for you. when I get more details I'll have them sent up."_

"Understood. Adama out." Adama replaced the comm. _They had a fighting chance!_

Until the Cylons came en-masse, as he was expecting them to do any day now. Warren had mentioned offhandedly that the Cylons had threatened to land two million centurions. Adama found the number absurdly low, considering the Cylons had managed to occupy twelve planets and still have enough materiel to chase the _Galactica._

Still, they could only have a token force on each planet... Either way, the Cylons would pose a serious threat, even through a conventional landing.

But now all he could do was wait.

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

One thing the _Agrippa_had brought to the fleet was a full piece military band. And so, on the observation deck, the band had started putting on daily shows which all military personnel could attend. The lines were long and tickets hard too get, but still crews clamored to get them.

Today was _Spitfire_ day, meaning crewmembers aboard the _Spitfire_ had preferential access. Ten minutes after tickets were available they were all requisitioned.

There were perks to being a commander on days like this.

"How long until they start?" Dualla asked impatiently.

Apollo looked at his watch, one had which belonged to the late Barry Garner. "Two minutes. They'll start when they start."

"All this waiting, it's getting me anxious," Dualla said.

"It's just a show! You always have to wait-"

"Not the show!" she interrupted. "Everything. Earth, the Cylons... And all we can do is sit out here."

"There's nowhere for us to settle." Apollo said. "We can sit here safely, or sit in orbit of Earth where the Cylons could show up any minute."

Dualla turned to him. "But Earth! I just want to walk on the surface, see the sky again! We only visited New Caprica, and that's the most sky and open air I've seen in years!"

"It's not that easy..." Apollo said apologetically.

"They aren't having any trouble sending that frakking toaster there!" Dualla shot back. "They can't trust him any more than I do, and he gets a free ride."

"He's going to be safely locked up on the _Valkyrie_," Apollo said. "Besides, we trust Athena, don't we?"

"That's different..."

"Oh yeah? How?" Apollo looked her in the eye, unyielding. "How is it different?"

"She had to spend a year in prison, put her life on the line countless times just to get us to trust her. She earned it. And he sure as hell hasn't."

"Ah..." Apollo leaned back, surprised at her impassioned argument. Ten he corrected himself, remembering how quick she had been to abandon him when he back the wrong trial.

"I don't trust him locked up, let alone being allowed to work on a weapon."

"Any chance to defeat the Cylons? I'd take it."

"Be careful." Dualla said.

"But-"

"Shh! It's starting."

The performance was enjoyable, and everyone enjoyed themselves despite the small space. The band even played some popular music along with their normal marches. At one time they'd managed to get every single audience member clapping along. The energy filled the room, yet could not escape it. Everyone was sorry when it was over.

"That was great!" Dualla said ecstatically. "I haven't been to a show like that in a while."

"He's an upper Rear Admiral, he'd probably have a frakkin' orchestra if he were any higher. A lot better than the pipe band they had on_Pegasus._"

"They weren't bad..." Dualla protested.

"But it's limited compared to that."

"Yeah, a bit. But it's all we had."

Apollo sighed. "Yeah. We had to make do without a lot of things back then. But soon it will all be over.

"I guess it all depends on that Cylon." Dualla said bitterly. "I think Tigh's being too soft on him."

"Tigh? Soft on a Cylon? Don't make me laugh."

_**Fifty Kilometres West of Moscow**_

"Gentlemen!" came a ringing voice. Lavochkin looked up from his rifle, which he was cleaning, and towards a clearing in the middle of camp. The rank of the man on the back of a jeep made him jump to his feet. General Karenin was the commander of the entire 1st Air Army (the same army which held the line at this section of the front).

"I'm sure you're tired of waging a defensive war..." Karenin said. "And you'll all be pleased to hear that now the retreat has stopped we have organized enough for a counteroffensive!"

Lavochkin didn't react as the men around him did. Instead of patriotic cheering and rhetoric, he felt a lump of lead form in his stomach. Cold fear.

"The Air Force has been halved, that much we all know. However, we still have 500 transport aircraft at our disposal." He walked into the command tent, and pointed at a map mounted on the board. "We're going to jump into Moscow and attack the Cylon headquarters to the east, in Yaroslyl."

"Sir, that's not possible..." Lavochkin protested, trying to peer over the more senior officers in front of him.

"When I ask for your opinion, _Major,_ you can give it." Karenin said calmly. "This plan has been deliberated on over the past week..."

The plan was simple. After a day of heavy bombardment by orbital platforms, MRBM, ICBMs, and bombers, 500 aircraft towing gliders would circumnavigate the front and overfly the remains of Moscow. Airborne troops would secure the grounds and await the gliders containing supplies and artillery. Once assembled, the two divisions would advance on Yaroslyl. The part that scared Lavochkin more than even jumping into the ruined city was the 1st Air Army's dependance on the 2nd Tank Army, which had been reduced to 300 tanks. After the jump, the 1st would make for Yaroslyl, and hold out until the 2nd Tank caught up. A second drop was planned, but not guaranteed.

It sounded disturbingly familiar to Lavochkin, though he could not decide in what way. The plan was dependent on the speed of the 2nd, as they were to relieve the 1st (who would be surrounded with only the supplies originally dropped).

And there would be little to no fighter support.

Naturally the first remark from a battered, patriotic section commander was "When do we leave?"

"We're leavning as soon as the weather clears. We'll be cycling you boys with the 5th Army, so the Cylons shouldn't notice any holes on the front." Karenin swept the tent with his gaze. "Any further questions?"

Lavochkin felt helpless as the general walked out. This plan had been created in less than a week, started back just before Moscow had been obliterated. It was based on faulty intelligence, he was sure. He's been on the front long enough to know that the metalheads were numerous. and that they could materialize an entire air force over their heads in a matter of seconds. Without fighter protection, the 1st Air Army would have its work cut out for it.

_**Yaroslyl, East of Moscow**_

"The Reds haven't budged from their lines." Doral commented. "I'm beginning to worry."

"We'll need reinforcements, that's for sure." Cavil turned away from the window overlooking the small city, and opened a refrigerator. "Vodka?"

"I've had enough of that stuff, thanks." Doral replied. "Have you done anything about the communication?"

Cavil didn't say a word, but kept pouring his drink. "No. But I did promise the American President that we'd have two million centurions in the next few days."

Doral spluttered as his gaze shot from the window to Cavil. "That's impossible! We could never get that many soldiers so fast!"

"We have enough..."

"Spread throughout the Colonies and Home. We can't just relocate them!" Doral was livid, and sat down on one of the couches in the sparse room.

"Mm," Cavil mumbled with his mouth full. "The Americans don't know that! They're terrified, I'm sure. We've only got just under seven hundred thousand now, and we rolled up a quarter of Russia! We've made history!"

"I wouldn't be so quick to celebrate, they could be planning something." Doral massaged his forehead. "I don't trust them any more than their Colonial cousins. They're adaptable. Almost too much so. They managed to stop us after uniting, which we'd written off as a possibility." Doral started counting occurrences on his fingers. "The flattened their own capitol with a weapon we failed to predict. Despite complete disorganization they managed to retreat in an orderly enough way to set up a front." He leaned towards Cavil. "Now that they're organized, what are they capable of?"

"What would the Colonials do in a situation like this?"

"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I just don't know."

Cavil scowled and finished his vodka. "They do make lovely drinks though. You gotta love that." He threw the glass into the sink and walked to the window again. "Is that an airplane?"

"You think the Russians would try to put aircraft into the air after this past week? A), they're all protecting the fronts, B) they don't know we're here."

Cavil turned to speak when the sound of an explosions rattled the glass. And another.

"So much for that idea!" Doral hissed as they dodged out of the room, running for the cellar. "Dammit, what now!?"

"Head for the shelter, that's what!" Cavil shouted back as the building shook. "Looks like the secret's out!"

The building rocked violently again, a missile of bomb falling close. The two Cylons ducked into the concrete shelter under the stairwell, joined by the other models who worked in the headquarters.

"We should've just stayed on a basestar..." complained one Six in the corner. Doral could hardly see her, as the lighting was dark. The shelter had not been used for some time, and was dark and dusty. The lights flickered as another explosive went off.

"We need to pull back some artillery." Doral said. "SAM batteries, captured flak guns, 30mm AA guns. Anything we can get." The cellar shook again. "And centurions. As many as we can get." He peered at the ceiling. "They'll be coming. Sooner than we thought."

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

_"Admiral!"_

Adama groaned and rolled over in his rack. "What is it?" he growled as he activated the comm.

_"Turn on the wireless, quickly! We've patched you in!"_

Adama sighed and switched channels. The wireless was clear, clearly tuned to one of the Terran news satellites. But the report was a kick in the gut.

"-_today. We're now going live to the White House, where President Warren is giving a news conference on the current situation in Russia. _

The ambience of the broadcast changed, as the source switched from the studio to wherever the speech was being made in the White House. Adama didn't mind that there was no image to go with the sound, but he wished he could get a television signal.

_Due to the current circumstances and after some deliberation with my cabinet, staff, and various ambassadors, I have come to the conclusion that it is not in the best interests of the United States to involve itself, or to align itself, in any way with the events occurring in Russia. We must look to our own borders, and safeguard our own people, I firmly believe that involving ourselves overseas will bring more harm than good to our population, and our population__must__ take precedence._"

Adama sat in shock, for though the audience broke out into cheering and applause, the entire face of the conflict had been changed. Now, only the Europeans, Asiatics, and Commonwealth stood between Earth and the Cylons.

* * *

Sorry for the wait. Things have been really busy lately. 


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15**_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Adama stormed out of his quarters, regretting that the automatic hatch did not allow him to slam anything. The very atmosphere around him blackened as he prowled through the corridors. Officers and crewmen alike scuttled out of his way as he blazed a trail all the way to CIC.

"I want the President of the United States, and I want him immediately." he said calmly but through gritted teeth. Even his patience was beginning to wear thin as time and again the countries of Earth proved more interested in their own affairs than in the welfare of humanity.

"The Pentagon says he's busy right now." Hoshi said, a hand to his earpiece. "They estimate another hour before he's free."

"Get him on the frakking phone." Adama growled.

Hoshi turned back towards his console. "I'm sorry, but Admiral Adama is insistent. He requires to speak with the President immediately."

While Hoshi wrangled with the operator on the surface, Adama scowled at the DRADIS display. A few more days like this and the fleet could just go settle Kobol. Earth seemed on a track to exact more than a price in blood. A fortune would more applicable.

"He's in the middle of a press conference, sir."

Adama didn't say a word. "When will he be out?" he finally said.

"The President's secretary is trying to cut things a little short, but we're looking at another ten minutes." Hoshi looked blankly at Adama. "He's got a meeting right after, so it'll have to be quick."

"Ten minutes. We'll hold them to that." Adama looked around. He rolled an empty chair over and sat down. He'd been woken up to listen to Warren's choice, and did want to collapse in the middle of CIC. Then an idea struck him. "What's the status of the FTL inhibitor?"

"It departed for Area 51 thirty minutes ago." Hoshi reported.

Adama scowled again. Too late to recall the Raptor.

"Sir, you don't suppose that's why-" Hoshi started to say.

"That might be a deciding factor. Or the Cylons could've detected it an issued an ultimatum." Both were likely possibilities. But with Adama's unfamiliarity in the current political situation, anything happening internally in the United States could also force his hand. It was hard to say.

But until Warren was free, here Adama would stay.

The operation of a battlestar like the _Valkyrie_ or _Pegasus_ was much more efficient than that of the _Galactica_, and a lot less noisy. Voices were kept to a more muted level and the sounds of keyboards and computer monitors could still be heard. Not that there was much that need doing outside of keeping orbit. With calm on the Russian fronts and no large Cylon activity only a few Raptors were being flown along with a small CAP. Even the CAP was unnecessary, as Earth possessed a significantly larger sensor grid than anything the _Valkyrie_ carried.

And so time passed slowly, even just ten minutes.

"Admiral, he's on the line." Hoshi said at last.

"Put him through," Adama said, getting to his feet. He picked up the receiver from the plot table. "Mr. President, I've just heard your announcement."

"_I'm sorry, Admiral, but my position is not open to negotiation at this point. We have no interest in supporting this war anymore."_Warren, though relayed through various satellites, still sounded resigned to his decision. "_I wish I could be of more assistance, but the die's been cast, as it were."_

"You have no idea how critical this is!" Adama almost pleaded. "This isn't some political enemy, this is the pinnacle of racial cleansing! It's Us versus Them, and it has been from the start. They will not stop until humanity is dealt with, either under rule or under the ground. We found that out on New Caprica, and I cannot allow this to happen again. Not here."

The sound on the other end of the line was most closely associated with indignation. "_We never asked you for your war, and we never wanted you here. The Cylons arrived _after_ you did, not before! So in a way, we should be blaming you, not the other way around."_

"But Mr. President, we're not blaming anyone!" Adama didn't even bother to mention that the Cylons had in fact been on Earth (however recently) before the _Valkyrie_ had ever entered orbit. It would be a futile effort trying to convince Warren with an argument like that. "The fact of the matter is that they are here and they will keep coming until no one is capable of resisting them."

"_They have assured otherwise."_ Warren simply said.

Adama was completely taken aback. "What?"

"_We negotiated the nonaggression pact with the Cylons. We agreed to the terms, and we are living up to our side of the bargain. If only they had done the same with you all those years ago, this situation might not even exist."_

"That is none of your concern how our government-"

"_And yet _our_ government is of _your_ concern. Your government's failure directly led to this conflict, so I say that your government's business is very much our concern. Think on that next time you dictate policy to us. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go."_

"Mr. President!" Adama barked, but the line was dead. He replaced the receiver calmly, then turned and left CIC. "Two down." he mumbled.

_**Smolensk Air Base, SSR**_

Lavochkin sighed as he looked out onto the tarmac. Sure enough, the Red Air Force was scraping rock bottom. Modern IL-118s sat side by side with IL-76s and even one or two An-22s cobbled together from various parts or reactivated from museums. It was a sad display, despite the number of aircraft that had been assembled. In older Russian military tradition, quality was taking a back seat to quantity. Surely in other bases there were similar fleets assembling, but they couldn't look any better. With the old Antanovs, the speed of the fleet would be a problem. The slower aircraft would struggle to keep up while the faster jet transports would be close to stalling. Helicopters were out of the question, as Cylon air defenses would have an easier time picking off slower aircraft (despite the use of the Antonovs), and they would have a shorter range as well. The fighter situation wasn't too bad, as all the operational squadrons had been quietly relocated, and were awaiting zero hour.

"This is suicide, this is crazy..." muttered Sergeant Veslovsky. "What idiot thought this up?"

"Keep it down, Sergeant." Lavochkin hissed. "It'll be worse if everyone picks that up. They must have confidence!"

"I'd like to keep my head, thanks." the sergeant shot back.

"We go where we're ordered." Lavochkin whispered, trying to keep the conversation away from the soldiers marching around them. "Look at the bright side, there's good weather."

"Why couldn't anyone see that the yanks were getting ready to pull out?"

"Sergeant, don't make me order you to shut up." Lavochkin snapped. He himself was more than a little put out by the sudden capitulation of the Americans. But they would go ahead as planned, backup or not. He just hoped the Cylon would screw up and start another September 11/Pearl Harbour style catastrophe. He secretly doubted it, though.

For the foreseeable future, they were alone.

"_Thirty minutes to Zero Hour, repeat thirty minutes to Zero Hour. All personnel proceed to departure areas. The red zone is for the loading of cargo only."_

"Yeah, yeah, heard you the first time..." Lavochkin muttered. Even the uncomfortable shelves and webbing that passed for chairs in the aircraft would be preferable to standing in full battle gear. Along with everyone else, he was weighted down with extra ammunition, a pistol modified for plasma rounds, a day's worth of rations, a small radio, and full combat gear. Once the paratroopers landed, they were to assemble a charge towards the target site.

The twenty-five minute mark passed, and the lines of troops continued to board their aircraft. Lavochkin was midway through the lines, and it would be some minutes yet before he himself boarded.

He glanced over to his left, and saw a colonel talking with a general, probably a low one. He could pick up some of their conversation, but had to strain to make it out.

"_This delay is an incredible piece of luck... Quarter of the country and then they stop... ...as soon as possible."_

_"Of course we must attack, there's... ...liberation! Russia has never been held by an invading force in its entire history. We cant'..."_

Lavochkin shook his head. It seemed as if the upper echelon was intoxicated by patriotic flag-waving and brimming with confidence in a manner more suited to a citizen on the sidelines. The soldiers being thrown into the operation were either panicked or completely self-assured. The level of morale that would be necessary seemed to be lacking, probably a result of the earlier Cylon blitzkrieg that drove them this far back so quickly. Lavockin wondered how long the combination would last, and whose viewpoint would be proven correct when the guns fell silent.

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"You're kidding!" Anders hissed. "He knows all about us?"

Tigh looked around, making sure the corridor was clear. "He knows us by name, and points out specifics he couldn't know otherwise. I have to believe him."

"He threatened to leak stuff to blackmail you, too. I wouldn't trust him too far."

"He's just like a kid..." Tigh said. "I don't know how but he's really frakked up."

"Sounds like a real nut-job to me." Anders thought hard for a moment, befroe looking up. "Still, I'm willing to give him a try. All he needs is an FTL communicator. Not like he wants a missile or anything. If he says he can take them with a radio, sure."

Tigh took a swig from his flask. He'd managed to stay within reasonable limits ever since taking over the _Galactica,_ but this new problem was making him reconsider. "If he said he could make a weapon, or biological agent to kill them I wouldn't trust him with a screwdriver. But here I am thinking of sending him to Adama and letting him make whatever the hell he thinks he can."

"Thanks for letting me know, skipper," Anders said. "I thought he was just another toaster, but still... I don't know whether it's better that I know who he is or not. Whatever you do don't give him any leeway, he may exploit it."

"Don't worry, Ensign," Tigh said, taking another drink. "I think I got it under control."

Anders snapped Tigh a salute and stealthily walked away as if nothing was amiss. As time went on it was easy to consider themselves human, but there was still a need to be discrete.

Tigh also drifted towards his quarters, as the time was nearing when Remus was to be shipped to Earth. It would be a simple operation, as Admiral Greer had already sent word to Adama via Raptor. In less than an hour Remus would board one from _Galactica_ and jump behind Earth's moon while _Valkyrie_ sent Vipers to escort him in. This was to make sure no Terran alert system was triggered, which could result in the destruction of the vessel due to the heightened status of Earth's defenses following the fall of Russia.

Once in his quarters, Tigh looked over the inevitable paperwork that a battlestar commander must face. Another facet of the job he would much rather do without. Repair schedules, duty rosters, supply manifests, all vying for his approval.

Oh well. They could wait. He had more important business now.

He picked up a comm line. "Major Agathon, this is the CO. I want a Raptor equipped for at least two jumps ready in forty minutes." He replaced the unit and turned to the paperwork.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Adama stared at the dispatch in disbelief. He'd heard a Cylon had been apprehended by the _Galactica_ but now the Cylon was heading to Earth with everything but a red carpet.

Not to mention that the plan relied on a country that now would not lean towards either side. They would need to go to Europe or the Commonwealth. After dealing with the last two powers, Adama was hesitant to enlist China's aid. A smaller country would probably be a safer alternative.

So he would have some phone calls to make.

England, Canada, Australia, any of the mainland European countries... And only about an hour to do it.

"CIC, CO. Mr. Hoshi, please get the prime minister of England on the line."

The line crackled with static as the call was relayed through several satellites to the surface, until finally Hoshi said "_Link established. Receiving... It's all yours."_

Adama switched the feeds. _"24 Downing street, how may I direct your call?"_ came a voice on the other end.

"This is Admiral William Adama of the battlestar _Valkyrie,_ requesting to speak to the Prime Minister."

_"Please hold."_

Well at least they were taking his call. Adama wasn't aware of the political situation in Britain as well as he knew the one in America, but he did know they were still involved in Russia. Aside from that he knew little.

_"Hello? Admiral Adama, I take it?"_

"Prime Minister," Adama replied. He didn't know him by name, but he couldn't go wrong using an honourific.

"_Prime Minister Goldswater, at your service."_ said the Prime Minister, as if reading his mind. "_What can I do for you?"_

"It's a rather complicated situation." said Adama. "In short, what we need is a large transmitter and an equally large power supply. It could prove vital in stopping the Cylons, not just in Russia."

_"That sounds good, but it's still an unusual request. What's the transmitter for?" _He sounded a little confused, and rightly so.

"We're flying in a... specialist from our main fleet, and he's going to assemble a faster-than-light transmitter array..."

"_A what? And you need a lot of power, right? Might be a little complicated right now, we don't exactly have a surplus of energy."_

"I had a suspicion that might be the case." Adama sighed. "Can you suggest any other way to get a transmitter on the scale we're looking for and the power we need to fuel it?"

"_To tell you honestly I haven't a clue what scale you're even talking about. I'd suggest looking into Canada or Australia, neither of them are in Russia right now, and I'd trust them a hell of a lot more than I'd trust the Chinese right now."_

"I'll get in touch with them then."

"_Sorry I'm not of more help, Admiral, but on an island this small with this many people we need all the power we can get. Trouble is the last government forgot about the upkeep of the grid and now we've lost four major plants to overhaul."_

"Thank you anyway, Prime Minister. I hope you resolve your difficulties."

"_As do I, old boy, as do I. Goodbye."_

Adama hung up the phone. Canada or Australia. Kara Thrace had mentioned crashing in Canada when she fell through the anomaly, perhaps they remembered.

"CIC, Adama. Get me the Canadian Prime Minister, Mr. Hoshi."

Adama waited while the line hissed with static and computer tones. At last the line connected as Hoshi gave him the go-ahead.

"_Government of Canada, communications, how may I help you?"_

"This is Admiral Adama onboard the battlestar _Valkyrie._ I'd like to speak to the Prime Minister."

_"Hold please."_

_Well you can't get them all immediately._ Unfortunately time was of the essence. Perhaps he should have mentioned the urgency of the-

"_This is Brent Taylor, how may I help you?"_

"Prime Minister?" Adama asked in surprise.

"_Of course. What can I do you for?"_

Adama regained his composure after the initial surprise, recalling the purpose of the call. "This may seem like a strange request but we're flying in a specialist from our fleet. He is going to try to construct a transmitter which will hopefully render all the Cylon weaponry inoperative. This is critical for us and hopefully Russia."

"_Okay, but I don't see how this involves me..."_

"We need a transmitter and a large power source, one larger than our ships are capable of producing." Adama waited for the response, expecting another negative. If only he'd had more time to prepare it might have been more successful, but the Cylons set deadlines, in a way that ended up using the literal meaning.

"_Oh... I see what you mean now."_

"I understand the difficulty of setting up something like this..."

"_I'm pretty sure we have the power, but if there isn't such a facility free... There's nothing I can do. I'll contact the NRC and see if I can find something. We've been experimenting with FTL drives ourselves, we may have one you could use..."_

"Anything you can do would be helpful." Adama said. There was a flicker of hope.

"_Well I'll have someone get back to you if there's one free. If not, you'll have to hope someone somewhere else does."_

"I wouldn't hold out any hope." Adama said, almost hypocritically for he was holding out hope himself. "Just do the best you can. _Valkyrie_ out."

_**Moscow, SSR**_

Lavochkin grunted as he hit the ground, throwing all of his weight to his left side. He rolled for a metre before coming to a stop tangled in his parachute. Once he'd come to a stop he was fighting his way out of the lanyards, flattening out the chute so it wouldn't be caught in a breeze. Once disconnected, he pulled off the protective cover off the muzzle of his AK-69 and loaded a round into the chamber. The AK-69 was a more advanced rifle than the 74, despite the lower number. This was due to the fact that it was developed in 2069, while the AK-74 was created in 1974. It was just as sturdy, but was equipped to handle the plasma rounds, which the 74 had not been.

Once armed, Lavochkin immediately dodged for the rendezvous point at the edge of the field. Though not in the city centre, the landing zone was close enough to still be unoccupied and relatively safe. Still, he kept the Kalishnikov in a firing position all the way.

"Alpha company, go left! Beta, on me!" he shouted. At the same time, his battalion commander, Colonel Kuznetsov, struck a flare and held it above his head, the red glare cutting through the early morning.

All in all, the field now held three battalions of the First Air Army. The other two were in a field a short distance away, and would meet up with them when they began to move out.

"Colonel!" Lavochkin called when he was close enough. "What's our status?"

"Well, Major, we've got down in one piece. I'm thankful enough for that. We've also got most of our jeeps. As for the rest, I think they were on the Antonov that packed it over the front."

"We have enough, I think, sir." Lavochkin surveyed the landing site again. "I think it's remarkable this worked at all. There isn't too much debris from the blast..."

"We're on the outskirts, we've got the city between us and the front." Kuznetsov joined Lavochkin in surveying the plain. "What I'm worried about is when we get on the highway. We'll be exposed until we get into the more forested areas."

"But we'll see them." Lavochkin pointed out. "In the pines they can sneak up on us without us knowing it. Snipers could be a problem."

Kuznetsov laughed. "No-win, eh? This is our country, remember? We know it better than they do."

"But we still need to take the roads. We can't go cross country too easily..."

"You're right, not with the wheeled vehicles. Oh how I long for an American transport! They can drop a main battle tank..."

"We've got what we've got. Most of our large transports were hit when the airbases went down." Lavochkin put on the safety and shouldered his Kalishnikov. "We should get moving. The second drop should be soon."

"Of course." Kuznetsov stepped away, and started barking orders at the small-unit leaders. The second wave, an equipment drop, would be here any minute.

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Colonel Matthew Naslund was apprehensive of his task as he waited in his quarters for his escort to the hangar deck. He'd been requested by Admiral Greer to accompany the Cylon prisoner during the Raptor flight, and join Adama at Earth. He knew more than any Colonial about Earth, but that wasn't the reason for his anxiousness.

The last time he'd set foot on Earth had been around forty years before, when the shuttle carrying him to the _Activity_ had launched from Florida. His knowledge would be out of date, and his recommendations might not be an accurate guide. He had been glad that his job had kept him at Tau Ceti when the _Valkyrie_ had first left for Earth, but now that the _Activity_ had been lost in orbit and abandoned, he was essentially unemployed. The technicians and researchers that had been with _Activity_ and _Shackleton_ at least could continue their research into the space-time scars left by the Terran FTL drive, but without a ship to command he had nothing.

But at least here he didn't have to face reality. Reality was that he had no home, either. Because the world had changed and he hadn't, going back could be a painful experience. He'd had a pathetic marriage that had ended rather badly, so he had no immediate family to go back to, but all of his friends and extended family would have moved on. If he'd had a son, they'd be the same age now. He was thankful he didn't have one.

There was a knock on the hatch. "I'm coming," he said. As he opened the door he came face-to-face with a marine officer in their standard beige uniform, and three more in the space-black combat gear.

The officer gave him a salute. "Colonel, if you'll follow us."

Naslund followed behind the marines, as they headed through the maze of corridors. He felt like he was on a surface warship back on Earth, as all the spacecraft he'd been used to operated in close to zero-gravity. He could see the advantages of having artificial gravity, as it allowed people to navigate the ship more quickly, made it easier to operate, and prevented clutter in the working area. One thing Naslund had learned to hate about zero-g was small floating objects that got everywhere. He infinitely preferred artificial gravity.

"Wait here."

Naslund looked around in surprise. They weren't in the hangar deck, but outside what appeared to be a brig of some sort. After a few moment, the marines returned, guarding a confident looking young adult, maybe even an older teenager.

"Oh, looks like I've got company." he said. "I'm Remus."

"Colonel Matthew Naslund, United States Air and Space Force."

Remus winked. "From Earth, eh? I hear it's a nice place. I always wanted to visit it, but it looks like I'll get my chance now."

"It's had some problems..." Naslund admitted.

"Who hasn't? Colonies have had troubles too, you have no idea how they fought among themselves before the Cylons came along."

"Aren't you a Cylon."

Remus nodded. "Can't you tell? Otherwise I look damn good for someone forty-two years old." He turned and grinned. "Jealous?"

"A little, yeah." Naslund admitted. "But you don't refer to yourself as one."

By this point they'd arrived at the hangar deck. The Marines kept Remus to the side while the Raptor was moved to the centre of the deck and readied for takeoff. He kept talking anyway.

"Nah, the ones who rebelled were walking talking kitchen appliances. Lots of intelligence, but no personality, and unfortunately no sense of humour, either. I was one of five human-looking models developed by the Colonials in the middle of the war. The Cylons were doing their own experiments to evolve past toaster-ism, but all that resulted in were real humans with metal bits welded on." Remus made a face. "Kinda gross, actually. They just strapped 'em into the newer basestars and let them run those, not a whole lot of good for anything else. But anywho, they found us, attacked the lab, kidnapped me, and reverse engineered me into the seven copies they have now."

The guards hustled the talkative Cylon into the crew compartment of the Raptor. Naslund strapped himself in, the feel of the craft reminding him of transport aircraft back home.

"So you're the original?"

"Yup." Remus nodded as the Raptor rose to the flight deck. "I love feeling special."

Naslund felt G-forces kick him in the gut as the craft leapt off the deck and out of the flight pod, the engines spinning up with a loud whine as the craft prepared to jump to Earth.

* * *

_Well, here it finally is. Took a bit long for various reasons. Sorry for the delay._


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16**_

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

Adama looked around the landing field of McDonald-Cartier airport, taking in the expanse. It was smaller than Dulles in Washington, but still had various large aircraft at the terminal. In two rows leading to the Raptor were six honour guards, each of them with wide-brimmed beige hats and red uniforms. A black car waited at the end, standing beside it was most likely Prime Minister Taylor.

"Admiral Adama, I take it." he said as Adama walked between the guards. "Prime Minister Taylor, we spoke on the phone."

"Good to be here," Adama said. "You said you found a proper facility."

"Yup." Taylor nodded. "There's space at the NRC, and it has some generators we can use as well as tapping into the normal power grid. The nuclear plant at Chalk River is also operating at top capacity."

"That's good, I have the... specialist here."

"That's my cue." said Remus, hopping off the wing of the Raptor. "Hi."

Taylor looked strangely at Remus. "_That's_ your expert?"

"One of them." Adama said. "I have others awaiting transport."

Taylor still cast a confused look at Remus. "Alright then, but still..." He shrugged. "If it gets the Cylons off our planet, I'll be happy."

"That's the basic idea." Remus said. "I don't hold the new ones in very high regard."

"As opposed to the old ones?"

Adama sighed. "The ones we originally fought against, they were all scrapped after the newer models came into being."

Taylor grinned. "Well then they'll be no threat! It's the new ones I have a problem with."

"Exactly!" Remus exclaimed. "The new Cylons are the problem. And I'll be able to shut 'em all down. One thing about machines," he winked. "You can turn 'em off."

"And the human-lookin' ones?" Taylor asked.

"Well... They'll have nothing."

Adama nodded impatiently. "Yes, but can we get to the facilities?"

"Oh... Yeah, let's get going."

Adama got into the car, one of the hydrogen-burning models. One aspect he had noticed was that the humans of Earth didn't seem to use gasoline. All the engines he had seen were hydrogen, ethanol, or electric, more variety than seen on even Caprica. He was impressed by the hydrogen ones, though. They didn't rumble or make loud noise, nothing louder than a hiss or a purr. He hadn't been in an electric one, however, and he assumed them to be even quieter.

"What do you think of Ottawa so far?" Taylor asked.

Adama was startled out of his thoughts. "Small..." he said. "The colonial capital on Caprica was much larger."

"Yeah, well we're not the biggest city in the universe, we kinda accept that." Taylor nodded. "New York and Los Angeles are pretty massive, Shanghai, Hong Kong, New Delhi... Those would probably give your Caprica a run for its money."

"Perhaps... Washington was large, and I saw New York. But I do admit a smaller city isn't such a bad thing."

"Definitely." The Prime Minister nodded. "A lot quieter, friendlier, well relatively but you know what I mean. I like it. It's pretty recent compared to some cities, though. Like New York was big before Ottawa was a logging camp."

"A logging camp?"

Taylor grunted an affirmative. "That's all we were, a bunch of lumberjacks driving logs down to Montreal. Then 1812 happened, then confederation and Queen Victoria picked Bytown and called it Ottawa. Probably because most people couldn't find it on a map. Trying to prevent the Americans from getting at it, since both Toronto and Kingston were hit in 1812."

"You were at war with the Americans?" Adama exclaimed in surprise. "But President Warren said the Americans were a British colony at one point, and you're still in the Commonwealth."

"Well... They got rebelled against the British, had a few wars with them."

"Ah... I see." Adama paused. Perhaps that was one reason for the American neutrality, their common beginnings. Although now America and Britain were allies. Not so for the Cylons and the Colonies.

"Care for a drink, Admiral?"Taylor asked, holding out a bottle.

"What is it?" Adama said, looking at the dark liquid inside it.

"Just Coke," Taylor said. "Non-alcoholic, if you don't drink."

"Thank you," Adama took the bottle. It was a sweet flavour, one he wasn't familiar with. But he could easily get used to it.

He cast a sidelong glance at Remus. He was just staring out of the window, taking in the scenery of the city. Gods willing, he would end the Cylon threat for good.

_**Northern Russia**_

"Nothing, nothing and more nothing..." Lavochkin muttered to himself. Sure enough, that's what there was: miles and miles of empty steppe and pine forest. He yawned.

The small two lane highway was empty, and Lavochkin was pleasantly surprised not to find a huge crowd of refugees or even abandoned vehicles. Once they were closer to the enemy he might worry, but for now it meant the column could move relatively quickly. All they had were jeeps, some of them modified with twin machine guns but most without. Some of the battalions were on foot behind the advance group, and they would probably be aching quite a bit.

"Forty kilometres!" the navigator shouted, fighting to keep the map straight in the light breeze.

"Where's the resistance?" Lavochkin asked. "You think they'd put up a bit of a fight, surely they know we're here!"

"Damned if I know!" the navigator shouted back.

Lavochkin sighed. It was almost too easy, just driving up the main highway with no resistance, not even snipers between them and the town.

And so the convoy moved on, pausing at intervals to allow the marching troops to gain ground. At the astonishing rate, they were bound to be in the town by dark.

"Major!" the signalman reported, "The recce squadron is late reporting in."

"How late?" Lavochkin asked. This was the first bit of bad news they'd received, although it might have been nothing.

"At least fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Lavochkin said. No doubt, this wasn't good. This was either a breakdown in communications, which was bad, or worse a large force was waiting for them at the edge of town.

They exited another forest, with a narrow plain flanked by conifers. Lavochkin could see the distant spires and towers of the target. Between them was a stretch of light wood, plus a few assorted highway overpasses and one river bridge. The reconnaissance jeeps had been tasked with capturing the river bridge, using twin mounted plasma guns to hold it. It seemed now like the bridge wasn't being held.

"How far until the bridge?" Lavochkin asked the navigator.

"Five klicks," came the reply. "At this rate, another fifteen or thirty minutes. An hour at most if we wait for infantry."

"No time," Lavochkin replied. "Signal Kuznetsov, I want to go ahead and get to bridge as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

Lavochkin took out his binoculars. Glancing under a highway overpass ahead, he caught a glimpse of the bridge. There was no smoke, so it hadn't been demolished. But no sign of any activity. The jeep was bouncing too much for any more detail than that.

Five jeeps increased speed, pulling ahead of the column and racing towards the bridge.They're advance was cut short sooner than expected, though.

The jeep to the right of Lavochkin exploded suddenly as they approached the highway overpass, sending red-hot debris into the other four vehicles. There were no serious injuries apart from the doomed crew of the demolished jeep, but the four hit their brakes.

"_Everyone out!!"_ Lavochkin bellowed. "Move yourselves!"

Though the jeeps had not quite come to a halt, the occupants dived out of the jeeps to sides of the highway, small clouds of smoke and dust thrown up by standard machine-gun bullets surrounding them.

"Where's the fire?"

"They've got the overpass occupied!" the signalman from Lavochkin's vehicle shouted. "I see at least fifteen metalheads up there!"

"Mother of God..." Lavochkin hissed. The entire column would have to pass under, and there was no way of moving the motorized component to another road. They were trapped.

"We have to recapture the pass!"

And it would be another twenty minutes before the lead groups of the column arrived. Until then, they could do nothing but hold out.

_**Yaroslyl, Russia**_

Doral winced as another explosion went off in the distance. "What are they doing?"

"I don't know..." Cavil muttered. "I wish they'd give up on the bombing! It's their own people!"

Sure enough, because the Cylon headquarters were in the middle of the city Soviet forces had little idea as to where the commanders were. Recon flights were almost hourly, pinning down the Cylons in their installation. Had they attempted to leave, they would have been spotted and most likely followed. This way they could at least hide, hoping that the Russians would not be eager to attack their own citizens. It had not turned out like that, though, as the Red Air Force had pounded the cities not only with bombers but with missiles and whatever satellite weapons they could contact. It seemed as though they were trying to level the city and with it the Cylon resistance. Several bombers had been obliterated, but the missiles were harder to stop. And the citizens were paying for it.

"We've got the weaponry, we have the infantry, but we have no mobile armour..." Doral complained. "Sometimes I wonder what I'd give for one of their tanks."

"We've held pretty well without them, so far. Centurions can travel over rougher terrain, with the right rockets they can simulate the firepower. Less accurately, but still..."

Another explosion flattened a house two blocks away. "Damn this!" Doral muttered. "Why won't it just-"

The sentence was cut off as the door burst open. A centurion entered the room in their customary jerking fashion. It came to a complete stop, entirely motionless. "Status report: enemy drive halted one-nine-one degrees from city." came a flat electronic voice. "Scouting units contained, estimate larger force beyond visual range."

Doral and Cavil were silent. "That's it..." Cavil suddenly said. "The bombing... Quite a diversion."

"Yeah..." Doral mused. "But what do we do about it?"

"Signal for some air support and crush them of course!" Cavil responded, gesturing. "We can have a squadron of Raiders here in less than fifteen minutes."

"Perhaps..." Doral said absently. "But what if we were to let them into the city?"

"That's what they want!"

"Exactly." Doral suddenly became very aware. "We put up token resistance, then collapse in on ourselves. They charge right up into the city, where we can wear them down with snipers and mines."

"Urban warfare..." Cavil rolled his eyes. "I've been in space too long. Never would've thought of that."

"It's perfect... And the bombing would stop!" Doral was already running through the possibilities in his mind. "We have a section of Centurions hold their position, but not reinforce them. The Russians will surely break through eventually, and they'll have a clean sweep right until the city limits. When the last unit is in..." His train of thought continued, the words unnecessary.

"I like it, provided it works and there aren't too many of them. What I'd like to know is how an army can appear out of nowhere like that, we've bottled up the front pretty well."

Doral nodded. "Well, we've thrown almost everything that isn't still here to the front, there's nothing between here and there, we're overextended until those others arrive."

Cavil was fixing himself another glass of vodka. "Yes, but those soldiers will still have to come from somewhere. We don't exactly have centurions coming out of our ears."

"We've abandoned three more Colonies, that frees up some."

Cavil nodded, eyebrows raised. "Okay, you've got a point. I still think this isn't gonna be a cakewalk. We're not ready for operations of this scale."

"Once we solidify our hold on Russia, we'll be fine." Doral looked out the window. "We're making history in more ways than one. No invading force has ever occupied Russia and held it. If we hold it, we'll be the first."

"I don't have your obsession with history and all that stuff." Cavil swallowed. "Just make sure you use it all to your advantage. And I don't mean throwing a textbook at them."

"Don't worry. Centurion, have all units at enemy location hold position but not to expect reinforcements. Meanwhile organize several sniper and mortar batteries. Execute order."

The centurion walked out of the room.

_**NRC, Ottawa, Canada**_

Remus looked up from the wiring he was formatting to see Tyrol walking into the room. "Hi, Galen! Join the party!"

Tyrol looked around, taking in the mess. "You manage to work here?"

Remus laughed. "I made this mess. Shoulda seen the look on the janitor's face when he walked in yesterday morning, I think he hates me now."

"What are you working on?"

"Well, I'm trying to reconnect the transfer coils, hook up the transceiver assembly to the FTL unit and plotting the end of civilization as we know it. Oh, and I'm hungry too. Anything else?"

Tyrol didn't know whether to laugh or worry. "Yeah... Not really."

"So yes, but not really? Really, bro, make up your mind!" Remus dropped the two wires and stuffed them into the panel. "So I guess you're here to help or something, right?"

Tyrol nodded. "That was the general idea, yeah."

"Yeah, well I've managed so far. And no broken bones yet."

"What's this code you're trying to transmit?"

"Huh?" Remus looked blankly at him, then nodded. "Oh, that... Yeah, trying to shut down the Cylon machinery. One problem with basing your society on machines is you can turn them off."

"Even the ones not connected to any receiver?"

Remus dropped his pliers and picked up a screwdriver. "All Cylons, well the machine ones, are hooked up. Makes things easier to manage. Pretty much all mechanical parts have some connection or another. They're arrogant enough to think no one can do what we're trying to do, hack in the backdoor and shut them down."

Tyrol could understand that, also remembering the time the other Sharon had disabled an entire fleet of Raiders before _Galactica_ vipers tore them apart. Cylons weren't used to it.

"So one code and they all shut down? I thought it was more complicated than that."

Remus shook his head. "Quite simple." He looked up from his work. "Spend a few years with the Cylons, you'll learn a whole lot."

"I just find it a little odd how easy it seems to be..."

"Ha! Not exactly a walk in the park, but I see what you're getting at. Yes, why should you trust me? Why should one Cylon who spent forty years with your enemy suddenly come back with a miracle cure, right? All too easy... Maybe it is." He looked off into the distance. "Hell, maybe I'm a double-agent trying to screw you all over, thought of that?"

"I didn't mean-"

"I know. But I've run into that ever since I've gotten here. I don't expect it to change. But one day, procedures like that might be justified. One day you might get a bad one. At least you're alert and ready."

"Yeah... Need any help?"

Remus nodded. "Get me a box of timbits, will you? I'm starting to like 'em."

_**Northern Russia**_

Veslovsky listened to the messenger with a little trepidation. The Cylons seemed to have a good grip on the overpass, and Lavochkin's small scout party had nothing heavier than a few grenade launchers attached to their rifles. They could hold, not push forward.

But he couldn't accelerate the column any more. With the troops on foot, he would have to do the best he could.

They had to punch through to Lavochkin's position. Unfortunately, the overpass was completely jammed to radio communication. And with forces completely confined to the single highway, there weren't many other places to swing around. The scout forces were completely pinned down, with nothing Veslovsky could do. A majority of his jeeps were towing light artillery, with the rest in behind the main body of the column. None of them were armed or armoured.

Up at the overpass, Lavochkin was having his own difficulties. The Cylons again and again had raked his ridge with machine-gun and mortar fire, although his men were hunkered down far enough that they rounds had little effect. The jeeps had by this point been completely demolished, easy targets for the machine-gunners on the overhead road. The staccato pounding and thunder had continued unceasingly through the day, making rest impossible. Lavochkin himself was becoming jaded to the noise. But he prevented any attack, trying to keep his men alive in case some centurions left the overpass and tried to rush his small hideaway from the rear. Unfortunately this option led to his men being restless towards the rear, always keeping a watch on the foreboding conifer forests.

But the assaulting forces remained on top of the highway overpass.

"Radios are still down, Major!" came a call. "We can't raise Division!" In the din, Lavochkin couldn't tell who had spoken.

The pounding continued.

_**Washington, D.C.**_

She had been holed up in this foreign country for days on end, perhaps longer, as all she could focus on was the inexorable battle for her country. The loss of Moscow had been a hammerblow to her, many of her friends and family had lived there.

But the mourning could only be momentary.

Bleary-eyed, Tatiana Beria again pored over reports from her motherland, reports not only cataloguing the Front, but a daring plan be General Yeremenko, an airborne assault on the Cylon headquarters. The armoured linkup was still breaking through the Front, but the airborne forces by all measures were ahead of schedule. However, four hours before the reports had been made communications with the First air Army had gone dark, meaning either they had encountered resistance and were being jammed, or they had been destroyed.

Beria tried not to think about that.

Her staff, supplemented by American contractors and Russian embassy workers, was doing their best to coordinate with Yeremenko and Karenin in the SSR. They also tried to dissuade her, as many times during the past few days she had insisted on leaving America to return to her country.

"The men are becoming restless, without victory! They need a morale boost, and quickly!"

Chekov shook his head. "Madam President, it's too dangerous. And this new mission is exactly that: a morale boost and a chance to end this war before christmas."

"I'm sick of hearing that..." Beria muttered, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Everyone always says 'this plan will end the war!' and then it doesn't... Don't be quick to say that."

"You're right, but still..."

Beria grunted, her face still remained expressionless. "I have to do something! I cannot keep sitting here, reading reports while my soldiers are out there being slaughtered!"

Chekov shuffled anxiously by the door. "Yes, Madam President, but the situation is not as hopeless as you believe. We've managed to launch a counter-offensive against the Cylons and we are holding the line."

"But for how long? The American aircraft carriers have left Russian airspace, they've gone completely neutral."

Chekov glanced at the door again. "If you'll excuse me, Madam President."

"Yes, of course. Go." She waved her hand.

As he left, she once again sank into her deepening thoughts. Granted, her country's situation wasn't worsening, yet. But with the pullout of the Americans, she wondered what the state of affairs would become. This time the Europeans were on her side though, and that had to count for something. The RAF and the Luftewaffe would both be instrumental in protecting the Front.

After that... It was anyone's guess.

And far above, the _Valkyrie_ orbited. She couldn't help but wonder what Adama was up to. Ever since the Cylons had come his pleas for settlement had faded into pleas for defensive action. The Americans had ignored both. China was always stockpiling munitions. The European Union had taken the SSR as proof and had ramped up, and Russia herself wished she had listened.

Beria nodded to herself. For certain, things weren't turning out the way Adama had intended. That much she knew for certain.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter 17**_

_**Yaroslyl, Russia**_

The situation in the Cylon-held city was by no means precarious. Heavy Raiders were supplying the arms, with an incoming flight every two hours. At least 80 tons of ammunition per day had been flown in this way.

The Cylon in charge of the airlift was Simon Fuller, one of the models known to the humans only as Simon, although their last names were more common across the model. He had been orchestrating the cargo drops since the Cylons had landed in Russia, and was only now starting to increase supply drops as the threat of an impending battle increased.

Fuller looked out over the airfield. Four Heavy Raiders sat on the tarmac, their contents being unloaded by Centurions and carried away, the chain extending away to the edge of the field.

Noting the progress of the operation on a clipboard, Fuller looked south over the treeline. Two kilometres beyond it lay the M-8 highway, and the Russian army pinned down by the overpass. Very faintly he could hear gunfire, the bursting of machine gun shells from the Centurions holding the bridge. His fear was the airport's location. If the Russian paratroopers overtook the overpass one of their first objectives would be the airport. In one of the most documented battles in Russian history, the Battle of Stalingrad, the German Sixth Army had been resupplied by air. Russian battleplanners no doubt researched this and other battles, ad knew of it. If Simon Fuller had heard of Stalingrad, the opposing commander knew of it as well.

He finished logging the unloading procedure and signed off on the entry. There was another airfield on the other side of the Volga, if this one fell the other could be used to support the Cylon forces in the city.

A concussive boom from beyond the treeline shook him out of his thoughts. A larger explosion then erupted, and a glow appeared on the horizon.

_**M-8 Highway Overpass**_

Two more shells from Zaitsev's artillery corps slammed into the overpass, shredding the reinforced concrete from the rebar. The centurions clung on grimly to the wreckage, continuing their fire. Lavochkin's reconnaissance team had just made contact with Veslovsky's forward units ten minutes before. Three batteries had been moved forward to train on the overpass.

Lavochkin himself waited until the three shells had been fired, sitting with a small platoon in the trees to the side of the road leading over the pass. After the third had impacted the bridge, 40mm grenades from men stationed on the highway took up the role of the shells, biting large pieces from the material.

"Now!" Lavochkin cried. He jogged a short distance to the railing of the overpass and leaped over it, trying to keep a low profile. The other soldiers followed him over, while the others on the highway continued firing.

The centrepiece of Lavochkin's run up the side of the bridge was an anti-tank rocket launcher. Once the two sides of the bridge were covered, it would advance up the centre while the flanking units covered enemy activity. So far only one railing had been taken.

Two men got into position to make the run across the road. Hopefully the continuing fire from the highway would distract the centurions long enough for them to make it across.

Lavochkin jumped to one knee to peer over the railing. Sure enough, the Centurions were concentrating on the forces firing at them. Lavochkin gestured wildly with his hand, sending the three soldiers scurrying across the road. They dived over the other side, out of sight. They quickly reappeared, training the grenade launchers mounted on the bottom of their Kalishnikovs at the centre span of the overpass.

Taking stock of the situation, Lavochkin gestured to the rocket operator. The two-man crew jogged to the centre of the road.

"Now!" Lavochkin shouted, firing off a grenade as he did so. The two in the centre of the road got a rocket off and quickly reloaded, putting another one in the air fifteen seconds later.Three Centurions were blown apart in the barrage.

"Forward!" Lavochkin called out, his voice getting hoarse. Leaping into the road, he leveled his rifle forward into the smoke cloud. Suddenly from the smoke came staccato barks, and the pavement around their feet erupted. Somehow, through the smoke, the Centurions remaining could see well enough to return fire with chilling accuracy. Three were down already.

A rocket whined past blindly into the smoke cloud, another explosion rocking the bridge. The soldiers on the highway had ceased fire for fear of hitting their own men.

Lavochkin sent two more grenades into the cloud. The Centurions were temporarily stopped, and the remaining attackers charged forward to point-blank. Only when they parted through the other horizon of the cloud did they realize the overpass had been cleared.

Lavochkin staggered over to the roadside, and collapsed, sighing heavily.

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

Tyrol looked around the large room, trying to pick out his supposed brother among the wiring and transmitters. "Remus, where the hell are you?"

There was no answer.

Cursing to himself, Tyrol walked out into the white hallway. Wiring this FTL transmitter seemed to be taking a long time, considering how easy Remus had made it sound. And he didn't want any help, either. It seemed odd to Tyrol, but so far he hadn't noticed anything wrong with the project itself. He;d inspected it, and it certainly was coming together just as he'd expected.

It was probably coming along so slowly because of the frequent breaks Remus took. It was amazing he got any work done at all with his procrastination.

There was a slamming noise down the hall, and Tyrol turned to see Remus walk into the hallway. He looked blankly at Tyrol and pointed behind him. "Washroom."

"Right." Tyrol replied. "How much more have you got done?"

"We're getting there." Remus said. "One more day and we'll be good."

"Finally, a time estimate. Thought that would never happen."

Remus laughed. "That's not very nice. I'm working on it, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Tyrol re-entered the transmitter assembly room behind Remus. "What's left?"

"Just a few diagnostics."

Tyrol looked at him. "And that's gonna take a day?"

Remus nodded. "Yup."

"Just try and hurry things up a bit, okay? Russians are having trouble."

Remus rolled his eyes. "All I seem to hear about are the Russians and the Americans and 'what will the chinese do?'. Frankly, it's boring. The classic rock is so much more fun."

Tyrol raised an eyebrow. "Classic rock?"

"Yeah, music on the radio." Remus nodded. He was now climbing through the wiring into the centre of the contraption, excavating one of the control panels from the mess. "Good stuff, the current variety is too electronic for my liking."

"Yeah, fine." Tyrol looked around. "This place is a disaster."

There was a grunt of understanding from the mass of cables. There were a few more noises, and music began drifting out of the centre of the room.

"What's that?"

"Jefferson Airplane."

Tyrol nodded blankly. "Yeah... sure. Have fun with that. Just hurry up."

"Galen, all this work to save others... Their lives in my hands. It's interesting. Like what a god must feel like."

Tyrol rolled his eyes. "One delusion at a time, okay? Last thing we need around here is a singing Cylon god. Get to it."

He left Remus to his work, and exited the room once more.

He paused for a moment as he left the large workroom. He heard a clanging down the hallway in one of the adjacent storage areas.

Which was odd because on the manifest this wing was supposedly only used for Remus' project.

This part of the NRC was used for larger projects and storage areas. As far as Tyrol knew they were mostly empty or static, and no work was going on in any of them apart for Storage #6, which he had just left.

His curiousity piqued, Tyrol continued down the walkway, his footsteps sharp but quiet on the tiled floor. He rounded the corner, finding himself face-to-face with a football player in a military uniform.

At least he should've been a football player. The automatice plasma rifle looked like a toothpick in his hands, and the digital camouflage on his tunic appeared stretched. Of course that was probably the idea, intimidation.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this area is off-limits to non-authorized personnel."

"You don't say... I suppose that's why we're supposedly the only people in this wing."

"That's correct. Can't have too many people knowing things."

Tyrol nodded. "What is it?"

The guard laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know. Sorry, this is about as secretive as it gets around these parts. I've never seen anything so buttoned up myself."

"You're being pretty casual about it. I always thought guards like you were the shut-up-and-go-away type."

The guard laughed again. "I try. You're not finding out anything, are you though? Being mean does the same thing, it's just easier to do."

"Ah..." Tyrol nodded again. "I guess not."

At that moment a technician opened the door and closed it quickly. "Bathroom break, Ernie, back in a sec."

The guard, 'Ernie', just stared at him. "Good timing..." he finally said.

"What?" the technician said, before seeing Tyrol. "Oh hell."

"Took the word right out of my mouth..." Ernie said.

"I suppose I should be going now." Tyrol said cautiously.

"I suppose you should."

Tyrol quickly turned and walked away. Because when the technician had opened the door he had seen something. An aircraft, though more likely a spacecraft. Though painted battleship gray and sporting gray Canadian flags and Air Force roundels, there was little difficulty mistaking it.

Though slightly modified, it was a Mk. II Viper.

_**Yaroslyl, Russia**_

The city of Yaroslyl, as it had been known since the forming of the SSR, sprawled over two sides of the Volga River. Much of the downtown was nestled between the Volga and the Kotorost River, with the rest spreading out from the opposite banks and the surrounding suburbs. The city had seen fighting in the second revolution, and had even been captured by pro-communist forces before being routed by the socialists.

Once again the city was under siege.

The Russian First Air Army, pushing past the overpass and successfully holding the M-8 bridge over the Kotorost. There were on the outskirts of the city now.

Simon Fuller watched as another artillery shell impacted the landing field. The last Heavy Raider was preparing to leave, as the field was attacked around it. The Russians were definitely aware of the airfield, and they knew how it could resupply the occupying forces.

Then, slowly at first, the Raider began to hover, huge dust clouds billowing around it. It lift off ponderously and accelerated towards the sky.

Fuller breathed a sigh of relief. With the last spacecraft away, he could finalize the evacuation plans of the airport.

"Jack!" he called. Not all Cylons went by their standard model designation: Though model #5 was usually some variation of Doral, some took a more individualistic approach. Whether as a result of their espionage missions or simply personal choice, some had names they had chosen.

"Jack!" Simon called again, and the Five looked around. "I want to have this place down in under half an hour, their artillery is already in range and they can't be far behind."

"Yeah, we've already had a few casualties too. All the centurions have been ordered back, though, I don't get what the commanders have planned this time. We have to fight if we want to get anything done, not back away."

"There's probably a good reason. The important part is getting this place down." Fuller looked around again. Three more shells detonated nearby.

"Get moving, now!"

Though there were resurrection facilities in place in the city, there were substantially limited, and it would be difficult to re-route them to a resurrection ship outside of the system. Bringing a resurrection ship into orbit was suicidal, as the area was too heavily defended and the large ship an inviting and unarmed target. It was much easier to avoid getting killed in the first place.

"Come on, let's go, let's go!" Jack Doral called.

The sound of rifle fire started from the treeline. Russian infantry was advancing more quickly than expected.

A glowing sniper round clanged off the lead vehicle. Fuller swore and ran for his truck.

Luck was with him, for at that moment an unguided rocket slammed into it, blowing it and the occupants apart. The force of the blast flung him backwards.

He stared, dumbfounded, as the last trucks from the convoy started to leave. He turned and saw why: two more shoulder mounted rocket launchers were aimed right at them.

Fuller scrambled in the dirt, frantically trying to scurry behind a small tool shed beside the road. Another rocket howled past at the convoy. He didn't try to follow the trail, only hearing and feeling the explosion as another truck was presumably destroyed.

Clutching his only weapon, an automatic pistol, he made a run for the forest. His weapon felt pitifully small as two artillery shells exploded to the north.

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

Greer looked through the reading material the latest shuttle run had brought. If they were stuck out here, one consolation was the entertainment material that was brought back. He already had two stories, one by someone named H.G. Wells and another by Arthur C. Clarke.

"_The War In The Air..._" Greer muttered to himself. "Weird."

If one thing was certain, it was that he had a lot of time to read.

Greer yawned. Thanks to the Cylons, settling Earth had been reduced in importance. Making sure there would be a planet left to colonize, that was the important issue. Currently, with the occupation of the SSR, that was questionable. The military power of the Cylons was being tested like it hadn't been before. Though dependent on computers, the Terran military forces had not been compromised with the equivalent of the Command Navigation Program, and no easy backdoor was available. No doubt the Cylons were doing their best to do to the Terrans what they had done to the Colonials, but even so they were holding their own using conventional military tactics. The Terrans had still not adapted to the FTL drive, although the United States had an FTL inhibitor in place in case of Cylon aggression. Greer wished the Colonials had that technology, but they had returned the model to the USA.

"Of Progress And The Smallways Family..." Greer muttered to himself as he opened the first novel.

He'd reached the chapter titled _The Balloon_ when his phone rang. "Admiral," he said.

"_Message from _Galactica,_ sir. Colonel Tigh's discovered a Centurion 0005 on the captured Raider."_

"You've got to be kidding..." Greer muttered. "I'll be right there. Get Tigh on the line, if necessary I'll take a Raptor over."

He replaced the phone, only to realize he was only holding his place in the book with his thumb. "Bookmark, bookmark..." he breathed as he sorted through his desk. Giving up, he looked at the page number. "Sixty-one."

He dropped the book on the desk and left the room, heading for CIC.

"Status of the Cylon?" he asked as he entered. Ramius looked up.

"Tigh says there's no activity or movement, looks to be deactivated."

Greer sighed. "Good, good, last thing we want is a Cylon running around _Galactica._ Anything else?"

Ramius checked his clipboard. "Usual proportions, thickened armour, looks like an assault model, no built-in weaponry apart from the forearm sword."

"Pretty standard." Greer nodded. "Put it in containment. Don't want to risk it playing dead on us. Where was it found?"

"In the cargo bay, folded up. Doesn't look like it was disabled or anything when Remus stole the thing. Looks like it was put there."

Greer narrowed his eyes. "Okay... I don't like the sound of that. Still, might be a good explanation. Let Adama know on the next shuttle run."

Ramius nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Anything else?" When Greer was satisfied there wasn't, he turned to leave. "Good. I want to find out what happens to Bert." He ignored the puzzled looks from Ramius as the doors rotated shut behind him.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Adama didn't seem to react. "A Viper with Canadian markings?"

Tyrol nodded, standing uncomfortably in front of Adama's desk. "Yes, sir... The proportions were slightly off, but there's no doubt as to the design."

Adama said nothing for a few moments. Tyrol shuffled again, looking around the cabin.

"There isn't any way for the Canadians to even know what a Viper looks like, unless the Americans have given them some intel. Granted, even that isn't enough to construct a replica."

"Uh, no sir." Tyrol said. "Even a partial schematic or sample is required for that."

"And we got here less than a month ago." Adama stated. "So in order for them to have a complete Viper, they had to have advance knowledge of us. Which they didn't."

"No, sir..."

"Thank you, Chief."

Tyrol saluted and turned, the doors parting automatically for him.

This left Adama with an odd puzzle. How the Canadians had known. The chances of a convergent evolution were very small, considering that none of the other powers had anything similar. The American A-47 was more like the upper stage of a rocket than a fighter.

And why a Mk. II? Why not the more advanced Sevens, considering their tactical advances.

Then it hit him. Starbuck had said she crashed in Canada. And she was flying the same model. In order to repair her ship, they had to reverse engineer the parts...

There was only one way to find out for sure, and that was to talk to the Prime Minister. Adama picked up the handset and switched to CIC. "Mr. Gaeta, please contact the Canadian Prime Minister, I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible."

Finding the PM was another matter, as it was evening and being in favour of the environmental legislation he took rapid transit as much as possible. But his mobile was on, so it was only a matter of finding the right number.

"_Hello, Mr. Adama, picked a good time to ring."_

"Yes, I've just found something out from my people inside the NRC. Seems you're keeping a spacecraft there with remarkable similarities to our Mk. II Vipers."

"_Ah... I see."_

Adama felt a feeling of relief, the PM wasn't going to try an 'I-Don't-Know-What-You're-Talking-About' routine on him. "I assume it's based on the Viper that crashed on Canadian soil, and that was later repaired."

"_Quite right, we had the plans left over from the crashed UFO and we built our own version. Took a long time to get it right, the first few years gave us quite a few bruises from what I hear. The carrier herself is pretty much finished, and the Vipers, as you call them, are finally working to specs."_

"So you have more than one?"

"_We've had almost forty years with this design, of course we do. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say where or how many, but rest assured we'll hold our own."_

"One thing, though, how can you have had forty years? Forty years ago the Cylon War had just ended, and I was there when it happened. I was also here a month ago when my pilot disappeared, and a few weeks ago when she returned."

_"Ah, that makes you some kind of retread then, eh? Well I think it's got something to do with those anomalies the Americans created, she fell through one of those. They pop up all kinds of places and, well, I don't know what- Sorry, just a sec. This is my stop."_

Adama waited while noises of people and doors closing filled the earpiece. "_Yeah, sorry, anyway... To be honest our guys don't know what the heck they are yet, but I suppose you go messing with the fabric of space you get stuff like this."_

"I suppose that would explain it... You said something about a carrier too."

"_Ah, I did?"_

"You did." Adama said firmly. He didn't want to leave any 'classified' loopholes for the PM to escape through.

Taylor clearly realized this. "_Ah, damn. I can't tell you what or where it is, you understand..."_

"But you have something equipped to handle Vipers. Given that the Cylons are here now, why do you still hide it?"

"_Just in case." _came the reply. "_When things really go badly, we'll have a joker up our sleeve."_

"A what?" Adama was puzzled."

"_A joker. Like the card. You have poker on the Colonies?"_

"Poker? Not that I know of."

There was a whistle of surprise. "You seem to have everything else down pat, guess not everything can be the same. It'sa card game, you place bets, and there are a certain number of hands that can win..."

"Ah..." Adama made a connection. "It's kinda like a game we have called triad. Different cards, though."

_"Close enough."_ said Taylor. "_Is there anything else?"_

"I'd like to know more about this carrier of yours."

"_I'll have to talk with the chiefs of the Air Force about that, although I suppose you of all people should know about it. I'll see if I can get them to let some of your officers on board. Anything further?"_

"Not at this time."

"_Okay, then. Good bye."_

The line went dead and Adama replaced the phone. One mystery seemed mostly solved, but there seemed to be a lot on this planet that was under secrecy, all in the name of national security. He could understand the necessity, but it was still frustrating.

He had to admit, it was easier than diplomacy, though.

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

Things had started out badly for the Cylons. The loss of the primary resupply airfield had cut off the supply chains, and Russian bombers were already attacking the bridges across the Volga. Russian artillery was already hitting the outskirts of downtown, and infantry had captured suburban areas to the west. There was only scattered resistance in these areas, and that had been easily brushed aside by the Russian paratroopers. Two battalions had already completed the small encirclement, the Fourth pushing past the airfield to drive to the river, while the First reached the Volga to the north.

Major Lavochkin, currently traveling with the Third, hadn't seen much of the Cylons at all. Since the overpass they'd been curiously absent. Naturally he began to worry upon realizing this, however there wasn't much the battalion could do apart from being more alert.

"2 more kilometres to the edge of the city." his 2IC muttered, looking at the map.

Lavochkin nodded as he looked ahead. He could see nothing, although the buildings were getting higher as they approached city-centre.

As the buildings passed two stories he began to feel very nervous, constantly watching the windows and roofs above. He knew that a built-up city was the easiest place for an ambush.

"Keep low and to the sides," he ordered quietly.

Just as the words were out of his mouth, a loud crack resounded down the street, and one of the soldiers fell quietly, dead before he hit the ground.

"_Bozhemoi!_" Lavochkin exclaimed. "_The sides, quick!"_

Two more shots rang out, one of them missing and one hitting a leg.

"Which side are they on?"

"Which floor?"

"I've got wounded here!"

"My leg!"

Lavochkin ignored the confusion. "Everyone, eyes up top. Look sharp."

A flash emitted from the second floor of a building across the road.

Lavochkin shouted. "Up top, second floor, third window!" The floor then exploded as a grenade was fired in. No more fire came from either side of the street. Lavochkin waved his hand, and the others continued.

Once more, shots rang out.

The soldiers dived the the road surface. Two more fell to sniper fire. Suddenly on of the cars they were using for cover exploded in a burning conflagration. Four more men and women flew backwards into the brick wall behind them as more shooters fired from the rooftops.

"Return fire!" Lavochkin shouted, even though the order was redundant.

Buildings exploded as the grenades flew from the pinned battalion. More of them fell, the snipers well positioned. The Centurions didn't have to eat, or sleep, and could remain in position absolutely motionless for days. They were turning out to be deadly efficient urban snipers, and it now seemed as through the assault from the air might falter, mere hours after the armoured spearhead broke through the Front and set course for Moscow.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Mr. Hoshi." Adama said as he looked up from his clipboard. "I have a small assignment for you, light to no risk."

Hoshi turned from his workstation, intrigued. "What is it, Admiral?"

"Nothing much, just a recce. The Canadians have agreed to let me send an officer to inspect their carrier. They haven't given any details on it, they said it's sensitive to pass over open communication. All I know is the name." Adama glanced down to his clipboard again. "We've picked up a tour guide, of sorts, to guide you to her. I don't know what port she's docked at, but either the west coast or the east I expect you to keep an eye open. They constructed a Viper, and I want to know if there are any other advances that they've gotten a hold of."

Hoshi nodded slowly, taking it in. "What is the name of the ship?"

Adama checked again. "HMCSS _Panthalassa. _The name of the super-ocean in their Permian era."

"Yes, sir." Hoshi nodded. "The Raptor came aboard ten minutes ago. Should I proceed?"

"Yes, as soon as possible. This is an unforseen development and I don't want to be caught by surprise at a time like this. That's all, good luck."

Hoshi stood back and saluted, before turning to leave.

The Raptor was ready and waiting on the hangar deck when he arrived after stopping by his quarters. Inside was a new person, dressed in a blue uniform with two stripes on his sleeve, and a peaked wedge with a gold leaf on the right side.

"Lieutenant Hoshi?" he said in clear english. "I'm Captain Erwin Lord. I'm going to be your official escort for the inspection."

Hoshi shook his hand. "Thank you, Captain. I must admit I'm looking forward to seeing this new ship."

"Ah, I think you'll be greatly impressed. Cost a lot, that's for sure."

The hatch closed and pressurized, the Raptor was rolled into the lift chamber. This de-pressurized, and the craft started to rise to the flight deck.

"Once out of the flight pod, steer 183 mark 23 from our current course." Lord informed the pilot.

Looking at the course display on the console, Hoshi remarked "But that takes us away from Earth."

"Who said we were going to Earth, Lieutenant?"

Hoshi stared at him. "It's a starship?"

"That's right." said Lord.

"The asteroid you cordoned off..."

Lord nodded. "That's right too. Security, you can understand we want to keep project Pangea as quiet as possible. We'll be arriving in a little while. Your little shuttlecraft aren't bad at all.

"Now you're probably wondering why your commander is so interested in this project. One of the prototype fighters was seen by one of your men in the NRC. It was only a static test model, but it was recognized anyway. Because it's based on your Vipers, Admiral Adama was insistent that he be informed of all developments regarding Pangea. This is because, forty years ago, one of your ships crash-landed in the Arctic, northern Nunavut to be exact. It was immediately thought to be extraterrestrials, and we clamped the lid down immediately. Not a weather balloon this time, just a meteor."

Seeing Hoshi's lack of response to the weather balloon quip, Lord continued. "It turned out not to be little green men but one of your pilots. A certain Captain Kara Thrace."

"Thrace? But she's a memeber of current personnel..." Hoshi quieted to let Lord continue.

"Yes, this is due to some occurrence I'm not aware of. It sounds too much like a bad sci-fi movie anyway. The point is her ship was damaged, and we had to rebuild some of the structure and avionics. She helped as much as she could, but we had to use the ship itself and reverse-engineer the various patches." Lord paused for a deep breath. "During this time we found out from her the kind of ship this Viper operated from. The concept was interesting, to put it mildly. At this time the ships the Americans were putting up were of the more popular broadside model, what you're already familiar with."

"You mean a battlestar?"

Lord nodded. "That's what she called it, and what's become the colloquial term. The technical term is space-based interdiction cruiser. But we just call it a battlestar."

Hoshi leaned forward. "So you're saying, that you- That the _Panthalassa_ is a battlestar?"

"About two-thirds as large as your _Valkyrie_, moderate fighter complement, combination heavy plasma-based and guided weaponry... A bit different from your ships but very similar. Smaller when compared to them or the _Aurora._

"It was difficult to get the funding..." Lord continued. "As you know the accepted combat spacecraft is the shoot-first model. When we proposed your type of space combat, a few actually laughed. They laughed, and then they built it."

Hoshi sat back in disbelief. The Canadians had managed to secretly construct a battlestar, or ship like it. Suddenly the space gap between the Colonials and the Terrans had shrank incredibly.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18**_

_**Washington, DC**_

Andrew Warren yawned. Turning over in bed, he looked over at the door to the hallway. It sounded like the printer was going.

This wasn't a hugely unique occurrence. He'd gotten many printoffs late at night before. He hated them just as much as this one. At least they didn't wake him up all the time, leaving them to be found in the morning. Not this time. Unfortunately he had a habit of answering them as soon as possible, and right now that meant getting out of bed.

The warm august weather had been slowly replaced by an autumn chill, and it was clear at this time of night. He glanced into the office, and sure enough a single sheet was sitting on top. It seemed to be an email or letter. It could be from his campaign manager, detailing upcoming re-election plans, or more such reports. It was also possibly a crisis somewhere... It could be anything. His curiosity had so far had the better of him, so he picked it up.

_Mr. President,_ it started. _Through various methods we have learned that many of our compatriots are still incarcerated in various facilities in your country, and have yet to be released. I serve to remind you that this could be construed as an act which would violate our agreement. Therefore it would be beneficial for both our sides to stay away from the only consequence of this, as I'm sure you and your citizens would agree. We expect our citizens to be released from your facilities as soon as possible. Matthew Cavil, Cylon liaison._

Warren reread the message. It was true, and he had completely forgotten about the detainees. He had no reason to keep them anymore, except for information. However, this brought up another point: These Cylons had showed up three weeks to a month before the _Valkyrie,_ and certainly had been found in high-level, though not yet critical positions. And with fabricated indentity as well. However, based on the knowledge of the Cylons, they were extremely adept at computer-interfacing. Forging identities would be much simpler.

But they had been approaching key positions within the country. One had even been romantically involved with a systems analyst at Boeing, a company which was integral with supplying the Air and Space Force. One corrupt software upgrade and the whole system could've been brought down, a shade of what had happened with the Colonies. In fact a software patch had been found with unusual coding not native to the system. This patch had been two weeks away from being uploaded into the F-39 fleets.

And they were just supposed to be released. No questions asked. The price for neutrality, he supposed.

He would have to think up a suitable response. It would have to wait until morning, however. Now was not the time.

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

"We have to regroup, sir." Lavochkin said breathlessly, water streaming down his face. The radio buzzed against his ear as the speaker hissed with static, blending in with the patter of the rain. A light cloud system had moved in, and scattered showers were breaking out over the city.

"_I'm starting to agree with you, Major."_ Colonel Veslovsky said. "_The damned metalheads seem to pop up under every sewer and on every roof. They were ready for us, no question."_

"Sir, I've lost almost a quarter of this battalion. We're holding our salient, but it's rough going. It's the snipers that really hurt us."

"_Same here. We've had a few air raids on the outlying battalions holding the river as well. This is not the walkover they told us it would be."_

"When is it ever as easy as they say it should be?" Lavochkin said bitterly. "I'd recommend leveling the city, but there may still be civilians left."

"_I presume that's why we haven't nuked it or activated a few kinetic satellites. We'll have to do the best we can. Worst case scenario, we hold out until the ground forces get here. We've got them pinned, that's half of our job."_

"_Da_, but I don't know how long we can hold out. We didn't anticipate a long wait."

_"They're coming. They have to be by now."_

Lavochkin sighed, and looked out at the street. Puddles filled shell craters and potholes, but all else was quiet. Shattered buildings surrounded the roadways.

"We'll do the best we can. Any further instructions?"

"_Send some recon patrols out, but make sure they stay out of sight! I want to know where the metalheads are running things from, as soon as possible. Then maybe we can take it out and mop up. Over and out."_

Lavochkin stowed the radio in his pack. After gathering himself, he made a mad dash across the street, hoping more Centurions had not moved up in the convening hours. Fortunately they hadn't.

Ducking into a shattered storefront, he confronted a small group of the battalion. The group was spread over both sides of the street, defending in stores and abandoned apartments.

"Sergeant Davidenko," he called. "Organize a small recon unit. Be careful to stay out of sight, refrain from combat if you have to. I want to know approximately where the Cylon command centre is. Any concentrations of Centurions, or any of the human-types, that's likely to be something. Take a peek and get back here as soon as possible."

Davidenko nodded silently, knowing full well the risks this entailed. "Rasmussen, Harkov, let's go." He gestured with his hand. The three soldiers hopped over the shattered pane and into the rain.

"Good luck, comrades..." Lavochkin murmered to himself.

_**Battlestar Panthalassa**_

The _Panthalassa_ was easily recognizable as a battlestar, albeit of a medium size. Compared to goliaths such as the _Columbia-_class or _Mercury-_class, it was small. It was more on the level of the _Valkyrie_ or strikestar design, with a smaller fighter complement and larger engines.

"However," Captain Lord said. "It has a relatively heavy armament. It was hard enough to get the government to step away from the established starships, so we made some allowances."

The appearance of the ship itself was somewhat faceted, with many corners and angles such as later Colonial battlestars. It was also squatter and wider, and the flight pods drew level with the rear of the ship, unlike the Colonial design where the engines protruded behind a distance. The prow was blunt and rounded, much less pronounced than the bows of her cousins.

"And..." Lord said, with some pride. "She has a rudimentary but functional FTL drive. Not even the US has one." He seemed unaware of the now active FTL-inhibitors now appearing throughout the United States, each one incorporation a functioning FTL drive.

The Raptor trip ended on the hangar deck, again recognizable but different. Hoshi had been on several ships, but this was a new experience. Every Colonial ship was recognizable as such, and had general similarities. Here, the similarities were only superficial, with the rest filled in with established Terran experience.

The Vipers were all shades of gray with the Canadian Forces roundel and identification marks in light gray on the wings and dark blue on the nose. The deck crew performed the same tasks, but all sported battledress with a mottled green digital camouflage. Raptors were nowhere to be seen, but some sleek shuttlecraft seemed to take their place.

All the similarities-yet-differences made the experience a confusing one.

"Here, put these on." Lord said, holding out two sheets of thin metal foil with elastics. "They go over your footwear."

"What are they for?" Hoshi asked as he placed the foil on the bottom of his shoes.

"We don't want you floating through the hangar deck, now, do we? Although standard issue uniforms, all personnel on board have special gear in certain areas, and the floor's slightly magnetized to simulate gravity. Can't very well make the ship a spinner, not if we have to launch and recover spacecraft."

"That would be complicated." Hoshi nodded. "So all objects have to have this foil attached somehow?"

"We can operate normally, apart from liquids and nonmagnetic objects. Now that you folks have showed up, we're hoping you might be able to share that as well."

"We'll see." Hoshi said. "We're trying to be careful with any technological knowledge, just in case the situation gets complicated."

"That's understandable. The Yanks sure wanted to see you in their camp, probably why you got scared away."

"I suppose, that might be one way of looking at it... We just don't want to start a war here."

"You got one now."

Hoshi didn't say anything as they stepped out of the Raptor. Hoshi immediately started getting slightly queasy. Though his walking was only slightly different from normal, the rest of his body could definitely tell that the gravity was absent. The feeling soon passed, however: all Colonial Fleet officers naturally were ready for zero-G situations.

The more noticeable feeling was the difference between what he felt and saw. It looked like a normal hangar deck, with people walking around and picking up tools that were sitting on the floor, but his body was telling him that he should be floating. That was more confusing than feeling like he was about to leave the floor.

The corridors were designed much more utilitarian than those on the _Valkyrie,_ and reminded Hoshi of nothing more than a scaled-up submarine. However, the floor was level, and everything enclosed. The wiring was not haphazardly bunched on one wall, but neatly streamlined into the bulkheads.

"This is remarkable... And you've never built any ships like this?" Hoshi remarked, peering down intersections as they came to them.

"This is the largest space vessel we've ever constructed, we purchased the _Aurora_ in drydock. No, this way, we're going to see the bridge now."

"The bridge?"

Lord nodded. "That's where we run the ship, most command functions are issued from there too."

"We call ours the Command Information Centre."

Lord stopped in his tracks. "If you call it CIC, I'll be really impressed."

Hoshi stopped too. "We do, as a matter of fact."

Lord clapped his hands. "Hot damn! You've got to be kidding... Our CIC is a deck below the bridge, we direct battles and air units from there."

Hoshi shook his head. The similarities were almost scary in some cases.

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

Lavochkin jolted as he woke up. "Sir, sir!" came an insistent voice.

The major blearily looked outside. He'd fallen asleep only an hour before, as he hadn't had a decent rest since the attack began almost a day earlier. The rain had cleared up, but the sky was still overcast and a ground haze covered much of the horizon. "What is it?" he mumbled.

"Davidenko's back."

Lavochkin sat up, trying to will himself awake more quickly. "Sergeant!" he called out.

"Sir!"

"What's your report?"

Davidenko breathed slowly. "We found what looks to be a Cylon concentration around the mayor's office and the police station right downtown. We came under heavy fire pulling away. I'm afraid Harkov's dead. Rasmussen's getting his leg looked at, we got caught in some crossfire. They've got some heavy weaponry up there, machine-guns and mortars. Devil knows how we'll get close."

"Damn..." Lavochkin muttered. "Can we at least train artillery on it?"

"We can try. It's slightly hidden behind the exchange centre."

"Right. Captain Ignacy," Lavochkin turned to the doorway. Inside a mobile wireless set had been set up. "I want you to get in touch with Chuikov's artillery corps and get some ranging shots fired. Also call up division and see about some air support. If the artillery fails it might be our only chance."

"So an infantry assault is out then?" private Annisina asked.

Lavochkin shook his head vehemently. "I can think of nicer ways to commit suicide, comrade. No, we're going to have to do this from a distance. They're ready for us on the ground. Is air support fails, we'll wait for the armour to get here. Maybe tanks can get through."

Simon Fuller sipped the glass of water. "It was hell trying to get back here. The Russians are everywhere, they've got the river blocked on both sides. The airbase is completely lost."

Doral nodded. "They've bombed the bridges connecting us to the other side, too. We're cut off from resupply."

"Not too surprising." Cavil said from the other side of the room. "We're not exactly ready for a prolonged war now, are we? If those guys from the Colonies hadn't screwed up our plans we might have been more successful."

Fuller breathed deeply, trying to recover from his trek through the forest. "We're trapped now. We either fight them off or surrender."

"Surrender? Ha!" Cavil poured himself another glass of vodka. "Do you have _any_ idea what that would be like? I hear Russians aren't too nice with their POWs."

"We could all load ourselves with suicide bombs and resurrect safely after taking as many of them with us," Doral suggested. He leaned back in the leather office chair, and regarded the window.

"Not a bad idea. Hurts like hell, though." Cavil finished off his glass, and reached for another.

He was interrupted as the door opened to reveal a Two. "Russian artillery just moved into shelling range. We might want to leave."

"Ah, frak." Cavil hissed. "This is just going from bad to worse!"

"We should have kept more reserves back." Doral muttered in apparent hindsight. "We agree, we should evacuate to the waterfront, out of range."

"I don't understand what's taking them so long with those reinforcements!" Cavil said bitterly as he dumped his glass on the countertop in front of him. "Even a hundred thousand could change the balance here!"

"We're still in the process of evacuating the Colonies, it takes a while." said Leoben. "That's where the Centurions are coming from. It might take a little while. We have to hurry."

As if to underscore his point, a single ranging shot impacted near enough to the building to rattle the windows. The four Cylons quickly abandoned the hall.

_**Washington, DC**_

The door to the Office opened, and President Beria was ushered in by her escort, who waited outside in the anteroom.

Beria looked around for a moment, before speaking. "I must admit, President Warren, your changes of interest are somewhat interesting. From fully supporting us, providing us a base of operations and a show of force, to completely puling out and leaving us to our fate... And now, I'm still not sure where you stand."

"This isn't a meeting on policy, Madam President." Warren said carefully. "An issue has just come to my attention which I would like to ask you about."

Beria took a seat on one of the couches in the middle of the room. "Doubtless this is not on tariffs or something equally important, but since you're no longer involved in my country what could it be?"

Warren shrugged. "You're partially correct. What I want to know is what happened before the attack."

"Anything more specific? There was a hospital in Vladivostok that was being shut down because of a natural gas explosion, that happened a few days before."

"Did you have any knowledge of Cylon activity in key sectors?"

Beria shook her head. "No, how could we? In the end it turned out that some had infiltrated the NKGB, but whether that was covert or intentional, I still don't know. None appeared to be in the government, I'm not sure where else they could be."

"What about the arms industry?" Warren tried. "Electronics? Suppliers for the military?"

Beria chuckled. "No, not unless they had family connections or lots of money." Comprehension dawned on her. "Oh, well, isn't this ironic?"

Warren raised an eyebrow. Seeing this, Beria continued. "Our current system may be a little corrupt since the last few presidents, but it looks like preferential treatment has saved us from some of what I think you're getting at." Her voice became a little more upbeat, but her face remained expressionless. "I take it some Cylons infiltrated your own suppliers and tried to sabotage your forces."

Warren didn't breath for a second, but then exhaled and nodded. "Yes, they did. The _Valkyrie_ showed up just before the upgrades were due to be released."

"So the great American Dream has some holes after all." Beria said with no small amount of relish. "I wish my country were intact just so I could parade that in front of my cabinet."

"I'd be careful, Madam President." Warren said loudly and clearly. "Lately the Cylons have been making hypocrites of everyone they deal with. And so far none of us have escaped."

Beria glared at Warren as if she were tossing her head with disdain, but she didn't move. "Some of us have gotten away with so much it makes no difference whether they've been hypocritical or not. You have a country. I have a battlefield. Remember that, and you might keep it that way. Personally I think it's time you gave up trying to appear heroic or honourable, and defended your species."

Warren rose behind his desk. "Don't dictate my policies to me!"

"Why? Because I'm no threat? Because I'm human?" Seeing the understanding on Warren's face,she fired her parting shot. "You're right, Mr. President. We're all hypocrites now."

Warren continued to stand as Beria left his office. Only then did he sit down again.

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

Remus crawled out from under the transmitter. "Finally!" he exclaimed.

Tyrol looked up from his radio set. "Done?"

"More or less." Remus said. "I think it's safe to transmit now. I don't know how long it will take to reach all the Cylons."

"What do you mean? At least on Earth it should be instantaneous."

"Uh, yeah." Remus said. "You're right, it should be. Time to see if the faith you put in me is justified."

Tyrol rolled his eyes. "It's not like you're going to suddenly switch on and shoot me. You know what you are, and besides, you weren't built by them. So stop worrying."

"That's not what I meant, but okay." Remus started walking towards the console. Before reaching it he suddenly stopped. "Wait... You hear that?"

"What?"

Remus changed direction and walked towards the small portable radio playing music. "The music, that never-ending song..." he muttered. "This is it! But... It's not..."

Tyrol furrowed his brow and walked over behind him. There was no question about it. This song was the same as the music that he had heard himself, and that Remus professed to hear. Except it was different.

"There must be some kind of way out of here..." Tyrol mumbled, following the song. The words fit, but the music didn't.

"Said the joker to the thief." Remus finished. "Now that _has_ to be a sign of some kind." He turned up the radio and the music filled the room. "The display says it's by... Jimi Hendrix... 1968, that's over one hundred years old here..."

"But the lyrics, they match," Tyrol said, dumbfounded. "How is that possible?"

"No idea." Remus shrugged. "Don't know don't care. It's cool, though."

Tyrol gestured with his hands. "Don't care? That a song only human-built Cylons can hear pops up on Earth? This Hendrix isn't a Cylon, something must be up."

"Calm down. I'll start inputting stuff into the FTL thing now. Gimme ten minutes and we'll be up and running.

Tyrol was distracted by his radio beeping. "Just a sec, I got a message coming in." He walked over and picked up the set. "Chief Tyrol here."

"_Chief, this is _Valkyrie._ Just thought you ought to know we have company."_

_**Battlestar Panthalassa**_

The bridge had turned out to be slightly different from what Hoshi was used to. Instead of standalone consoles or rows of stations, most of the consoles were arrayed in a ring about the center of the compartment. A few freestanding consoles with seating were deployed in the middle, while a central chair was placed in the middle, capable of rotating to view every station on the bridge. One section of the bulkhead was not used by any station, but seemed to be a large display screen. Right now it was displaying various sensor diagrams and radar screens.

But Hoshi was no longer on the tour. Klaxons had started to blare a few minutes earlier, and Lord along with Hoshi were rushing through, trying to get a situation report.

"_Action stations, action stations, all hands man your battlestations. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill. Action station..."_

The bridge was a hive of activity, with the CO manning the centre chair and attempting to coordinate a response.

"Sir!" Lord called out. "How the hell can we have action stations in spacedock?"

"Ah, good, you're here." The CO turned to Hoshi. "Lieutenant, six unidentified ships just appeared near the Moon. I was hoping you could identify them once we're out of spacedock in the clear." He turned in his chair again, this time to face the operations console. "Mr. Murray, Release docking clamps."

"Docking clamps, aye sir. Confirmed clamps released."

"Fore thrusters to one quarter, rest at stationkeeping. Register prestart on the ion engines."

"Fore thrusters responding, confirm on quarter power." Murray responded from his station along the port bulkhead. Another crewman reported "Confirm ion prestart sequence initiated, two minutes to online." At this, the deck plates started to lightly hum.

A ship the size of the _Panthalassa_ took several minutes to gain enough speed to exit the docking station, but soon there was a voice on the wireless. "_HMCSS _Panthalassa, _this is Spacedock. You are clearing outer perimeter."_

"Confirm, Spacedock. Proceeding underway. _Panthalassa_ out." The CO turned to another station. "Have the port viewfinders lock on to the ships and zoom to four times. Onscreen."

The main screen switched from the sensor displays to show a digitally enhanced picture. The moon filled most of the screen, but it was still hard to determine the other ships.

"Zoom to five times."

The image resolved, and Hoshi could see without a doubt the starfish-shaped Cylon basetars.

"What are they?" the CO asked. The nametag on his black uniform read _Bishop._

"Cylons." Hoshi said. "Definitely Cylons."

Bishop sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. Navigation, set course for Earth. Engineering, all ahead full."

The various confirmations returned as the battlestar _Panthalassa_ began the charge to her first confrontation.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Sound Condition One, no drill." Adama barked. "Time to intercept, Mr. Gaeta?"

"Six minutes at their present speed!" Gaeta replied.

One battlestar against six Cylon ships. It wasn't a fair contest by any stretch of the imagination. There was one point of hope, as European and Chinese weapons platforms were arming, but the Russian models were being coordinated from orbit, as most of the ground stations were under attack on the surface.

"What's going on?" Commander Nelson asked as he rushed into CIC, still fastening his uniform. "We have trouble?"

"Six basestars." Adama said, craning his neck to see the DRADIS scan. "I just sent a Raptor with a help request to Greer, so hopefully we'll have some backup from BSG-41."

"We have the native defences, don't we?"

Gaeta turned around in his seat. "Chinese, European, and some some Russian. All American platforms out silent."

Nelson sighed. "Frak."

"Unfortunately, yes." Adama admitted. "Get all the Vipers in the tubes. Everyone that can fly. The satellites might take the baseships, but I don't want to push our luck."

As Nelson picked up the handset, he muttered "So far we seem to be pretty short on that. Attention, this is the commander! Launch all squadrons! Repeat, launch all!"

"Mr. Gaeta, get me the surface!" Adama ordered. "I want Tyrol ASAP!"

_**White House, Washington, DC**_

_"Sir!"_ General Trent's voice sounded strained. "_Six enemy warships just jumped into lunar orbit. They match the descriptions the Colonials gave us."_

Warren groaned and sat back in his chair. So much for a courtesy call. The Cylon presence was expanding, but he was bound to ignore it. But he wasn't going to sit back completely: that was just asking for trouble. "Bring our forces to standby. But keep it quiet, if the Cylons get word they'll be all over us. Make sure it's not obvious, that's a priority. But under no circumstances are you to take action."

"_The Canadian base in the Belt also launched a starship we had no previous knowledge of. Unknown configuration, different from any of ours."_

"What?" Warren was incredulous. He had assumed it was some kind of weapons development like their own _Van Allen_ station. It had been a tricky diplomatic meeting, trying to prevent the Canadians from looking too close at _Van Allen,_ and he had eventually had to cede their claim to the asteroid. Now he saw their reason for secrecy.

"Keep an eye on it. Only act if you have direct authorization from me. Anything else?"

"_Sir, is this a situation that could require the activation of the Van Allen project?"_

"Bring them to standby. I don't think they'll make much of a difference though. Good luck, general."

The Cylons continued to push the envelope. Free hand in Russia was one thing. Orbit of the Earth, that could threaten the entire planet. Wouldn't it?

_We're all hypocrites now._

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Sharon Agathon closed the door to the head as she returned to the rec room on deck 6. She'd been bored out of her mind lately, although the entertainment material purchased on Earth added a little variety. Still, playing the same games over and over got repetitive.

She was knocked out of her reverie and almost knocked clean over as a crewman bolted past, shouting out warnings.

"What the frak is going on?" she shouted after him, but the answer came soon after. Standing in the middle of the corridor behind her was an original Cylon Centurion from the first war, his sword extended. And it didn't look like it would consider her a Cylon.

Agathon immediately ducked into an intersection, trying to get out of sight. Making herself as small as possible against the bulkhead, she hurriedly glanced around, hoping to find a commlink. Muck was with her, only a few feet away was a unit on her side of the corridor. "CIC, this is Athena, deck 6! We have an intruder!"

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"I have Tyrol on the other end, sir." said Gaeta.

"Put it on speakers. Chief, I need word on your status!" Adama almost shouted. The basestars were now only four minutes away and closing fast.

_"Admiral, Remus just sent an initial transmission two minutes ago. He's working on a second now."_

"Chief, get him to hurry up. We're about to engage." Adama looked up at the DRADIS console again. Another blip was approaching from the asteroid belt, a smaller size than the Cylon ships.

"Identify that ship!" Adama ordered, the phone temporarily forgotten.

Gaeta quickly activated the recognition software. "Matches no known configuration, Terran or- Sir, we're being hailed!"

Adama didn't flinch for a second. He didn't have a second. "Hold on, Chief. Mr. Gaeta, switch the feeds. Put it on audio."

The speakers crackled for a second as they switched, then came on clearly. "_Battlestar _Valkyrie_, this is Lieutenant Hoshi. Come in _Valkyrie."

"Hoshi, this is _Valkyrie_ actual, report status."

"_This is the Canadian carrier, it's not a navy ship, sir. It's a battlestar, the _Panthalassa_. I'm sending the IFF codes now."_

"Roger that, _Panthalassa." _Adama said. "Don't fancy the odds but you're welcome to join us. Stand by, we're waiting on the deactivation code."

"_Received and understood. Hoshi out."_

Adama turned to Gaeta again. "Switch back to the ground. Get me the surface! Now!"

Gaeta didn't reply, he only nodded. The situation was becoming more urgent by the minute.

"_Admiral? Are you there?"_

_"_Chief! Sitrep!"

"_Sir, we sent the code thirty seconds ago. Is there any effect?"_

Adama looked at the DRADIS screen and then at Gaeta. He shook his head.

"Negative..." said Adama with disbelief and disappointment. No results. The Cylon ships continued to advance, power emanations still being detected. He pounded the plot table with his fist. "Chief, arrest Remus immediately and put a guard on him!"

"_Sir, perhaps there's another code he hasn't sent. We should-"_

"Chief, do it now! This whole thing is a Cylon trap!" Adama shouted. "Chief!"

But there was nothing on the other end. Then a rustling noise as the receiver moved through the air, with distant sounds of protest.

"_Sorry, Admiral, Galen's kinda busy now. What was it you wanted him to do? Something about putting me under arrest?"_

"What's happened to Chief Tyrol?" Adama hissed.

"_Don't worry, we've got a special sibling relationship, me and him. He should be safe. You on the other hand... Not so much."_

"Sir, sixty seconds to contact!" Gaeta reported. "The _Panthalassa's_ launching fighters and- Frak me, five more ships just jumped in! Different configuration!"

"Remus! Call off the ships!"

"_Sorry Bill. I'm through taking orders. I'm not some human you can boss around, and I'm not some Cylon tool either. You think those six ships are mine? Those are nothing to what you're about to see. _Mine_ should be arriving soon."_

"What are you talking about?"

Gaeta was getting more frantic. "Sir, four more ships have just appeared! Same configuration as the second five!"

"_Seems like they've arrived, from what I hear."_ said Remus. "_They're mine. Since I created the new Cylon race, since I was the template... It's about time I acted like it."_

"The Cylon ships are firing on one another, sir..." Gaeta said, sounding completely confused.

"Cylons attacking Cylons? What's going on out there?" Adama felt helpless. Then he remembered his fighters, still in a holding position at the edge of the _Valkyrie's_ firing solution. At Adama's hand signal, Nelson opened up a new wireless frequency on speakers. "Showboat, this is _Valkyrie_. Report on Cylon activity."

"_Valkyrie, Showboat. Nine of the basestars are of a different configuration than normal. I can't quite get a look at the Raiders... Maneuvering to- Sir! I recognize them! They're the models we encountered by that rogue basestar! Firing on the other ones!"_

"But that's impossible! We destroyed their baseship!" Adama said. The Guardian raiders had destroyed themselves when the basestar had exploded. Without their purpose (or God, as Sharon had suggested) they'd had nothing.

"_They're not Guardians, Bill."_ said Remus, still on the phone clenched in Adama's right hand._ " These are the real deal. I found a way to activate the Recall Yards, all of them. Every surviving Cylon from the first War, alive and under my control. See, they found out from me what those humanoid Cylons did to them. I'm sure you can imagine how they felt, being deactivated and forgotten, on the verge of being scrapped. That's betrayal. Until I found them. Creation, resurrection... They think I'm the Cylon God, instead of that jumped-up hybrid. And you know what? I think I do too."_

"Three more ships, sir!" Gaeta almost shouted. "Correction, four! The first six baseships are spinning up, they're pulling out!"

"Load emergency coordinates into the FTL comp and copy to _Panthalassa!_" Adama ordered. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

On DRADIS, the six Cylon basestars jumped away, and the older models changed course, vectoring in on the _Valkyrie_. The fighters the _Panthalassa_ had launched were pulling back, landing on the Canadian ship.

"_By the way, Admiral..."_ Adama jumped when he realized he hadn't severed the commlink. "_If you see my brother Saul Tigh, he'll probably have his hands full when you get back. Tell him it's nothing personal."_

Adama slammed the phone back into the side of the console. One thing was for sure, and that was that Tigh was not a Cylon. CIC tilted crazily as a Cylon missile impacted the hull.

"Orders, sir?" Gaeta asked. "Sir? Do we launch?"

"No, we have to leave. Recall the fighters! Fast!" Adama shouted over the collision alarms. "Count us down!"

Nelson looked at Adama in shock. "Sir, where the frak are we going?"

"Back to our Fleet. Nowhere else to go."

The ship shook once more.

"But we'd be leaving Earth helpless!"

Adama silenced him with a glare. "Gaeta! Get us out of here. Now!"

Gaeta manipulated the computers as fast as his hands would let him. "Transmitting to the _Panthalassa... _Jumping in three... Two... One... JUMP!"

The _Valkyrie_ and the _Panthalassa_ both disappeared from orbit, and the ancient Cylon warships settled into orbit, launching their entire fighter complement. More than seven hundred fighters began descending towards Earth.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19**_

_**USS Sioux, DDG-155**_

"Cap'n's on the bridge."

Bryson nodded to the duty officer. "As you were." After the bridge crew relaxed, he walked over to his command seat, the 'barber's chair'. He looked out the forward viewport and saw what he expected to see. Sea and more sea. A whole lot of nothing.

"Let me guess, nothin' new, right?" Bryson muttered, yawning. He'd only just gotten up himself.

The officer of the watch nodded. "Aye, skipper. Picked the wrong day for excitement. All quiet on the comms."

Bryson yawned. "Fig'red as much. Next alert drill?"

"Not for another seven hours, sir."

Bryson nodded absentmindedly. The sky was more or less clear, with only a few clouds brewing to the south, huge wooly cumulus clouds. He just sat, watching the ship pitch and yaw in the water, as it steamed north-west towards Baltimore. The _Sioux_ had been detached from her carrier group temporarily in order to refuel her nuclear core, as it only had less than a month of power left.

Bryson was shaken out of his reverie a little later by a conversation behind him. "What is it, Jenson?"

The OOD turned. "Nothing sir, just some trouble with our comm array."

"Then for God's sake get it sorted out." Bryson muttered, gazing out at the swaying seascape again. "Send a guy up or something."

At that moment the phone buzzed beside him. Glaring at Jenson, Bryson muttered "No excitement my ass," before picking up the receiver. "CO, what is it?"

"_Just a report on the comms, sir. All antennas and dishes check out."_

"Check out? Then what was the problem?"

"_Still is a problem, sir. We're just picking up some low stuff in the 200 meter band, otherwise we're off the air. No satellite connection either. What we're getting is pretty heated though. We'll have to do some retuning to transmit in that range."_

"So you're saying it's the source that's gone wacko?" Bryson scratched his head. "Rig the comms to transmit in that range, I want to know what's up."

Unfortunately for the destroyer, the answer was all too near.

"Radar contact, we got a bogey, correction fifty plus, inbound!"

Bryson swiveled around in his chair. "IFF?"

The radar operator shook his head. "Correction, sir, sixty plus."

Bryson just stared with his mouth open for a second. "Oh _shit._" he hissed. "Sound general quarters, no damn drill!"

The OOD nodded. "Boatswain!" he called, and interrupting the trained response continued "Sound general quarters, no drill."

"Aye sir." The boatswain's mate then woke the ship up with a shrill blast on the intercom. He flipped the alarm switch. And then all hell broke lose.

"_General quarters, general quarters, this is not a drill, general quarters general quarters, man your battlestations!"_

"Inbound skipper! Weapons range in fifteen seconds!"

"Fifteen seconds?" Bryson peered out the port at the black swarm on the horizon. "What the hell are they and how did they get so close? Scratch that, just put up a firing solution."

The tactical officer, already on the horn with the anti-aircraft batteries, flashed a thumbs-up.

"Weapons are go."

"Engines are go."

"_Time plus four. Material condition one now set."_

Bryson had to be impressed by his crew's reaction time. From a sleepy morning to general quarters in less than four minutes-

The bridge tilted wildly and collision alarms began to sound.

"Shit, we've been hit amidships! Damage control parties en-"

_CRASH_

"Two more on the stern, sir!"

Bryson scrambled up from the deck. "Where's that goddamned firing solution!? Get birds in the air, Tactical! Helm, port, full!"

"Phoenix batteries, shoot shoot shoot." came the voice.

With a deafening roar five Phoenix missiles soared away from the _Sioux,_ leaving thick white contrails. Flak began to burst as well, guided by computers and radar tie-ins to follow the targets. Crewmen and officers caught on the deck glanced up as the strange saucer-shaped craft flew low over the flaming ship. Tracer fire leapt from strafing runs and ricocheted off the hull, leaving huge plumes of sparks. Another missile impacted just fore of an armour belt, piercing the hull. Bulkheads quickly sealed the water off, but every passing minute the destroyer was listing more heavily to port.

Up on the bridge, the situation was clearly reflected. Shell impacts had damaged power relays somewhere, and shorts were frequently throwing sparks around some consoles. Conduits had ruptured, and some coolant steam was seeping in through the ventilation system. The list to port was making it difficult to keep a footing.

"Another hit amidships, skipper! Five more degrees and we'll be in serious trouble!"

Bryson rubbed his forehead, which he had smashed on an exposed conduit. "Engine status?"

"We're stuck all ahead full, rudder not responding."

Bryson groaned and leaned against the bulkhead. "Boatswain, sound abandon ship. Abandon ship!"

_"Abandon ship, all hands, abandon ship"_

"Everyone out, RFN, everybody move it!" Bryson shouted over the alarm.

This proved to be difficult. In some places the hull had completely melted through, leaving large craters in the deck and bulkheads. Some plating was so hot the soles of their boots melted, slowing their pace. Missiles were now regularly hitting the hull, as well as incendiary autocannon rounds. The fire from the destroyer's own batteries had stopped, and the sky was clear for the flying saucers to continue firing.

Bryson looked at his command one last time from the lifeboat, as she settled low in the water. The enemy aircraft abandoned the attack, seeing that the destroyer was beyond saving. With a loud and grating groan, the vessel capsized and sank beneath the waves.

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

Greer performed one last visual check of CIC. "All stations, stand by to jump. Start the clock, Tactical."

"Clock is running..." Lieutenant Urquhart reported.

Greer was distracted by a noise from the DRADIS console. Contacts. "What the... ID those contacts!"

Urquhart scrambled to confirm. "Colonial ID, sir... It's the _Valkyrie..._ No ID on the other, unknown configuration. Too small to be a basestar, Admiral."

Commander Ramius snapped his fingers. "Mr. Urguhart, hold the jump. Repeat, hold jump. Copy to all ships."

"Commander, get me a line." Greer said. When that was done, he opened the channel. "_Valkyrie,_ this is _Agrippa_ actual, come in please. _Valkyrie,_ this is _Agrippa_ actual on colonial channel 12, please respond."

"_This is _Valkyrie,_ Commander Nelson speaking. I'm afraid things are really fubar now, Admiral. Thirteen Cylon ships are now in orbit, more jumping in."_

"Where's _Valkyrie_ actual?"

"_He's here. Should I put him on?"_

Greer stood for a second. "No, I'll talk to him myself. What's the other ship?"

"_It's a Terran battlestar. Long story, sir, but it's with us."_

"Understood." Greer looked up to see Ramius. 'not good' he mouthed.

"_Was there anything else?_"

"No, I'll be over shortly. Out." Greer replaced the phone. "The Cylons came with more force than we expected. Thirteen basestars."

"Frak me!" Ramius sputtered. "Where'd those come from?"

Greer shrugged. "They're there now. Looks like Adama considered the situation lost."

"Two battlestars against thirteen ships? I'm not surprised." Ramius stepped back from the plot table. "Thirteen ships..."

"Yeah, that's a problem." Greer said. "I want a Raptor as soon as you can get me one. I'm going over to _Valkyrie."_

Greer turned, and at that moment the speakers crackled to panicked life. "_Agrippa, this is Galactica! Agrippa, Galactica, come in!"_

Greer raised and eyebrow as Ramius picked up a commline. "_Galactica,_ this is Ramius, Sitrep."

"_Isolate Galactica immediately, we've been boarded. It's the centurion, it's alive!"_

Ramius groaned. "Oh bloody hell."

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

Cavil stormed up and down the hall. "I thought you said they'd just jumped into orbit, Six! The skies are strangely empty!"

The Six in charge of communications gave him a hopeless look. "I don't know what happened, they were here and now there's nothing on any comms. We're off the air entirely, we can't even pick up our forces on the Front."

"And why is that?" Cavil ceased pacing and spun around on the spot, leaning on a tabletop. "Radio's broken? Electrical storm? Why am I not swimming in reinforcements?"

"All radios are down. Handheld units, everything. Best explanation is someone detonated an EMP."

"Goddammit." Cavil snorted. "Still doesn't explain why they couldn't fly a few Raiders out here. If they don't show up in less than two days we're all going to have to commit, what was it, kamikaze, hari-kiri? Whatever those island folks do."

"Mass suicide? You can't be serious!" Six was shocked, crossing her arms angrily. "What if we don't get resurrected?"

"Then you'll get to see God a lot sooner than you anticipated." Cavil shrugged. "Would you rather surrender to the Russians, they don't treat their prisoners very well now, do they?"

Six opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again. Cavil saw this with concealed victory.

"Face it, Six, we'd end up dead anyway." Cavil sighed, then stopped himself. "You hear that? The Russians are shooting..."

Six didn't move. "And how's that special?"

Cavil gestured around the room with his hand. "Where are the shells landing? Not in our little pocket, that's for sure. So where are they going? Those are big guns going off, we'd hear shell hits." Cavil looked at the phone on his desk, on old relic left behind by the Russians. "Well I guess if it's important this should-"

_Ring_

Cavil chuckled. "Am I good or what?" He picked it up. "What's going on out there?"

"_Skyraiders, One." _said a Five from the roof._ "There are old Skyraiders from the Great War attacking Russian positions on the outskirts. That's anti-aircraft fire."_

"Skyraiders?" Cavil repeated. "Are they ours, I didn't know we had any squadrons left. Six, what do you think?"

"I think we've got a bigger problem than we thought." she replied.

"They're blowing the Russians to hell, why is that a problem?"

The Five on the phone wasn't finished. "_Whoever said that may be right. They're headed this way."_

"Maybe they're here to help us. Our own forces, they're Cylons for God's sake!"

He was proved wrong a second later when a flash-bang went off behind the next building, shaking the ground.

"Get out, go, go!" Cavil shouted. "They're shooting at us!"

"No kidding!"

"They're shooting at _us!"_

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"Give me something!" Tigh growled. "Where is that bastard, I thought he was on deck 6!"

"He's moved again... We're getting reports of shots forward of Frame 12."

"Well isolate him, now!" Tigh gave out an exasperated sigh. This centurion didn't seem to be moving in any kind of coordinated way. It was just moving in random directions, raiding arms lockers and shooting up crewmen. It had long since retreated from the corridors, somehow managing to haunt the service crawlways between deck 5 and 6.

"Nothing subtle about this guy, so why can't we find him?"

Lieutenant j.g. Carraway said "We've got fire teams stretched pretty wide, still no contact. Reports show he's moving _away_ from auxiliary fire control. But that was five minutes ago."

"Someone forgot to load this thing with logic banks." Tigh snapped. "I want all possible targets with percentage probabilities of strikes."

"Yes, sir. We're also receiving a signal from _Agrippa._"

Tigh waved it off. "Tell the Admiral he'll have to jump without us, I don't want to go into combat with this guy aboard."

"No, sir. _Valkyrie's_ back. The jump is cancelled. He wants to know if we need assistance."

"If he's got Marines to spare, I won't refuse them. I want them under our command though, tell him that."

Carraway nodded. "Aye, sir."

On deck five, Lieutenant Burrell hunched along the conduit, trying to peer down the corridor without presenting too much off himself. Metallic clanking could be heard from beyond, down a bend in the conduit.

"CIC, this is Burrell, I'm in maintenance fore of frame 15 on deck five. It's approaching one of the ventilation junctions."

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

"You going to shoot or not?" asked Tyrol, standing unguarded in the corner of the hall.

Remus looked up from his console, as if only just remembering Tyrol. "What do you think?"

"I'm going to guess no."

"Good guess! Give the man a prize."

Tyrol crossed his arms. "I could just attack you now, you put your gun down."

"So go ahead." Remus looked down at the FTL communicator. "I have a feeling you're more interested in what's going on."

"I'll find that out when the cavalry comes busting through that door to get you."

Remus feigned indignation. "Ouch... Would you really treat your brother like that?"

"You're no brother of mine."

"Oh come on, look what you can achieve!" Remus snapped. "Look who you are! Only five of us in existence, and you want to be picky. Frak that!"

"I'm as much a Colonial as any of the others." Tyrol growled. "Just because I happen to be artificial doesn't change that. I was still Colonial by birth, or by creation, or..." Tyrol waved in the air, "or what the hell ever. I know who I am."

"Oh, Galen, you have no idea what you're passing up..." Remus shook his head. "You're much more than any human. You're stronger than them, faster than them, better in every way. Why design normal humans when getting a girlfriend is so much easier?" Remus laughed. "We're supermen, Galen. Above the mortals, superior. That's why they hired the military to build us, prototypes for the next-generation Colonial supersoldier, impervious to electronic control, stronger, faster, more intelligent..."

Tyrol was next in line to laugh. "I don't feel anything like that, I'm not immortal for one. Not fast, not exceptionally strong."

"You think they'd let the likes of you out into the world without dumbing you down? Safeguards on your mind, artificial aging, it's all to allow you to fit in. But those safeguards can be broken down. You know what I mean, don't you?"

Tyrol looked at him out the corner of his eye. "How about I say no..."

"Oh God, Galen..." Remus rolled his eyes. "Oh, wait, can't say that." He chuckled to himself. "That's me! Anyway, surely you all noticed during your stay at the Ionian Nebula?"

"You mean, that was the safeguard coming down?"

"Er... No. Just one. But it's the hardest one to drop, the rest are easy. You might have noticed things changing after that. But once you've bypassed the last one, imagine your potential! We may very well become Gods."

Tyrol started pacing back forth, alternately shaking his head and just staring at Remus. "You mean you believe that crap? It's not some crazy way of tricking your new friends?"

"Soon enough I will be one." Remus stated, as if saying that two and two made four. "Once the last safeguard is gone. Already they've detonated the nukes in the atmosphere. Once communications are down, the Raiders will sweep aside the last defences. They're already on their way."

"Then Gods help us." mumbled Tyrol. "And I don't mean you."

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

"No, no, no, we can't do that." For good measure, the number One slammed the table in front of them. Quite by coincidence, the building shook as another Russian artillery shell hit. "See, they're still shooting at us."

Five models had been convened in an emergency session in the basement of a hospital still in Cylon-controlled territory. The initial wave of old Cylon Skyraiders had been repulsed by the Russian forces surrounding the city, and the Russians had resumed shelling the Cylons.

"Look, One," said a Six. "they think we're behind the Skyraiders. They probably don't know that we've been attacked, or if they do they'll think it a happy accident and keep shooting."

"I agree." said a Four. "We have to open dialogue."

"That's suicide, and weakness on our part!" another Cavil emphasized. "We just rolled over a quarter of their country, you think they'll be in the mood to chat?"

Simon Fuller, sitting quietly at the back of the dark cellar, raised his voice. "Those other Cylons come back, and they'll be as isolated as we are. A double encirclement with three battling forces. We'll have to pool resources, they must know that as much as we do."

"Agreed." said Six. "All in favour..."

The first One looked in astonishment as every other model in the room nodded agreement. "You can't be serious, we can't allow it!"

Six glared at him. "You don't have the authority to countermand group decisions. Why are you so desperate to try?"

Fuller nodded. "Resistance is hopeless, Number One. We've voted. It passed."

The other Cavil sighed. "So be it. But don't hold out too much hope for it. I hope your Russian is good enough."

"Major!" came a cry. Lavochkin grunted as he woke up, having passed out on the floor of a ruined shop.

"_Where's the Major? Get him quickly."_

"What's up?" Lavochkin shouted. "I'm in here!"

A dirty looking soldier appeared at the window. "It's the metalheads, sir! Under a white flag!"

Lavochkin jumped to his feet. "Have they said anything?"

"They want to talk to someone in authority. A rather interesting development."

Lavochkin tapped him on the shoulder and hopped out of the building. "Damn right it is. Hoped you halted them before they got on our side."

"Yes, sir."

"Good job, comrade." Lavochkin slapped him on the back. "Lead on."

Surprisingly the envoys were two unarmed human models, and no centurions were to be seen.

"Damn odd." Lavochkin, muttered. They seemed to want something badly enough to come unarmed. "That's far enough!" he shouted at them.

"Major Lavochkin?" one of them shouted back.

"Correct! What do you want?"

"It's complicated! Could we actually talk about it, face to face!? Your terms!"

"Major..." said a soldier nearby, with his rifle trained on them. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I. Keep your aim, I'm going to bring them in. On our terms." He raised his voice to shout again. "Right, drop the flag, put your hands up, and come forward _slowly!_ And I don't want to find ourselves in the sights of some centurion!"

"There are no centurions!"

Slowly they came forward, hands up. Red Army soldiers rushed forward as soon as they were close enough. Right behind them was Lavochkin, waiting in an outdoor patio belonging to a small restaurant.

"Okay, I've got you covered." he said. "Pull anything stupid and you'll all get it, understood?"

One of them, a man of about thirty, held out his empty hands. "Don't worry, nothing will happen."

The other one, a young woman of apparently east Asian descent, started speaking. "You'll remember those aircraft that attacked us earlier today. "

"Of course. We destroyed some of them, if you were hoping for reinforcements."

"Quite the opposite." the man said. "They attacked us too. They're not ours. They seem to be a breakaway group. We were hoping..." At this he looked decidedly uncomfortable, "...that we could come to some kind of mutual defense arrangement. An alliance, maybe.

"So why should we ally with you and not them?"

"Well..." The woman paused to think.

"We don't know their intentions." said the man. "They've cut off communications, and our own ships are nowhere to be seen so chances are they're here in great numbers. We may not be their only target."

"If there are great numbers of them, and they want to blast you to hell and gone, I don't see any reason why I should ally with you more than them." said Lavochkin.

"Because if they've blown communications, they're not interested in negotiating, are they?"

Lavochkin nodded. "You're right, we haven't been able to raise anyone since this morning. The 2nd Army just came within range though, they'll be here tomorrow."

"Ah..." said the man. "If those Cylons attack us in force, we may be encircled together. We're isolated from the rest of the battle."

"I don't see any forces of Cylons. Still, what are you proposing?"

"We'd hope for a truce, maybe an alliance against the other Cylons."

"Quite impossible." said Lavochkin. "If there was a clear and present danger, I would consider it. As it is, we can hold our own. Your getting attacked is just a bonus."

"What if we agreed to cease attacking? A temporary truce, to see if they come back? If they find out what happened to their advance force, they'll be back soon enough."

"Twenty-four hours." said Lavochkin. "Then we continue."

_**Little Rock AFB, Arkansas**_

Robert Yeagar stuck his head out of the C-132K, his instructor right behind him. The training flight had been a normal navigation course, but again the landing was a little rough. It would go down in his record for sure, although it was not a red mark. He would have to clear up his landings or middle of the class might be all he could hope for.

"Not bad, Yeagar. Apart from that landing it was spot-on. Don't forget to mention to the ground crew about the radio, we need to get that looked at. Can't have it cutting out on us."

Yeagar sighed. He was good enough at self-criticism, he didn't need the help. It was his instructor's job, though.

Once inside the hangar, he signed off on his flight log, effectively handing over the aircraft to the ground crew.

"What was that?" he suddenly asked, putting a hand to his ear. "The band playing or something?" The air boss looked at him in confusion.

Suddenly the air-raid siren started howling. Everyone just stood staring at one another, unsure of what to do, before bolting for the designated exits. Pops and bangs began to be heard from outside, the echoes from large explosions further off. Most of it was drowned out by the sound of boots on concrete and the siren.

Then the thin metal siding of the hangar was shredded by a stream of tracer fire, and the orderly procession turned into panic.

Yeagar was not new to 314th wing, but neither was he a veteran. He panicked just as much as everyone else, trying to avoid the metal and concrete fragments flying through the air. A distinctive howling whine passed overhead, the sound of the attacking aircraft.

"_They're everywhere!"_

_"Where the fuck is base defense?"_

_"MOVE YOURSELVES!"_

The panic hit a fever pitch as a missile exploded right outside the hangar, obliterating one of the C-17Ds on the tarmac and blowing in the huge hangar doors, crushing those unlucky enough to have been caught there by the crowd. The smoke from the explosion quickly filled the remaining space, blinding everyone else.

Yeagar found himself next to a corridor, which he remembered led to the briefing room, change room, and generally away from the hangar. In panicked desperation he bolted down it, navigating on memory alone. He ran full speed into a door, fell to the ground, and pushed through it blindly. He found himself inside the men's washroom, clear compared to the smokey air outside. He scrambled to a tiled corner, and waited as the bombs went off outside.

_**Battlestar Panthalassa**_

Bishop tapped his hands on the arm of his chair. He hadn't left the bridge since the _Panthalassa_ had jumped into the middle of the Colonial Fleet, and the ship was still at condition two. What annoyed him most however, was the fact that whoever was in command of the fleet hadn't contacted him. He was uneasy at being in a strange fleet with no mission or information, and was frustrated by it. It was similar to a feeling he got whenever he was somewhere he felt he wasn't supposed to be.

The doors opened to the bridge, and he looked around. "Ah, Mr. Hoshi."

Hoshi was looking uncomfortable. "Yes, Captain?"

Bishop gestured at the screen. "Would someone please tell me what's up? Adama sends us an emergency jump coordinate, and considering the numbers it was a good idea at the time. But when are we going to take your big friends and jump back?"

Hoshi shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I've been monitoring some comm traffic from the Raptor on the hangar deck, and..."

Bishop raised his eyebrows in a prodding manner. "And?"

"We're not jumping back as far as I can tell, I haven't been able to raise anyone."

Bishop nodded and looked back at the screen. "Mr. Hoshi, if this alliance, if that's what it in fact is, is to work we need a little more openness. If there's a problem I'd like to know about it. Or do you just look uneasy because of the lack of gravity?"

Hoshi blinked without saying a word. "Well... _Galactica's_ been boarded by the Cylons."

"And you don't think I'd need to know about that?"

"I'm sure they can handle it on their own."

The captain chuckled to himself. "So that explains the shuttle traffic heading towards that ship and the fighters that have cut her off." Seeing Hoshi's look, he smiled again. "Yes, we know. We _can_ help, you know. We're not helpless just because this ship happens to be a bit newer than yours."

Hoshi tried to scramble for words, finally resorting to "What help would you be willing to give?"

"We've embarked a special forces unit onboard, part of JTF-3," said Bishop. "Their specialty is space-borne operations, including counter-insurgency, counter-terrorism, sabotage, and extraction."

"I'll let Admiral Greer know. He seems to be in command right now."

Bishop seemed surprised. "What happened to Adama?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard anything."

"Okay, keep me informed." Bishop turned to the tactical station. "Lieutenant, stand down to condition three." He turned back to Hoshi. "Also ask him if it's okay for you to stay here as my liaison, I think you may become necessary sooner than later." Hoshi turned to leave, but Bishop interrupted him. "Oh, and he can come over for a visit if he wants, I'd like to talk with him." Again Hoshi turned to go, and again Bishop stopped him. "Oh, and be sure to say please." Hoshi finally left the bridge without being stopped.

Bishop decided to leave the bridge himself, and handed over command to the officer of the deck. He took one last look at the viewscreen. He knew _Galactica_ was having problems, but otherwise it was all quiet in the Colonial Fleet.

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

"Admiral Greer reports incoming assistance from the Terran battlestar, ETA five minutes. Frak they're fast..."

Tigh nodded curtly. "Fine, route 'em to the hangar deck when they arrive." He looked past the comm station towards the back of the CIC. "DC, seal off Deck Five ventilation junctions. Burrell says that's where he is."

Down below decks, Burrell continued to hold position near the junction. His subordinate marines also held their spots in the maintenance crawlways surrounding the area.

Suddenly a strange noise came ahead of him. Burrell cocked his head to one side, trying to hear what it was. It quickly died down though. It wasn't mechanical, and seemed to be coming from a human.

"Who is it? Are you okay?" he shouted. The echo came ringing back, but not reply.

Gripping his carbine tightly, he advanced forward. He treaded as softly as he could, as the centurion was most likely behind the next bend. He peeked around a corner, and saw the centurion holding its arm up to the ventilation grating. A loud hissing noise was coming from it.

Burrell leaped backwards. "CIC, deck 5, it's releasing something into the air vents! Shut down the ventilation system! Now!"

Burrell heard the centurion start moving, no doubt it had heard him. But as he looked to his side, he saw a dead marine. A new kind of terror welled up. The marine hadn't a mark on his body, and as Burrell looked on, he thought he felt his throat constrict. He almost didn't notice the centurion come up behind him, and the sword deploy. In the end, that hurt less.

_**Galactica Port Landing Bay**_

"You're the deck chief?"

Laird looked up to see a Canadian soldier in jet-black fatigues. "Yeah, for now. What's up?"

"Your ship's been boarded, that's what. Captain Tom Hillier, JTF-3." He shook Liard's hand.

Laird looked over the Terran assault team. "You guys supposed to be here?"

"We were called here. Don't worry." Hillier nodded. "We're professionals. Just point us to the nearest Marine, they're supposed to coordinate us."

Laird in fact did literally point. "Uh, right... There should be some in the halls over there, I saw them earlier."

"Right, thanks."

Hillier led the way out of the hangar deck, entering the winding corridors of the flight pod. The first thing he noticed was the air quality. "Things are a little stale here," he said to his 2I.C, second-lieutenent Ritchie. "Either the vents are broken or their fans suck."

"There's no wind out of these grates, I think the system's down." came the reply from Ritchie. "Everyone better get their O2 tanks ready, just in case we need to move it. Oxygen will be running down."

"Good idea." said Hillier. "We still have to find the security forces here, though."

That didn't turn out to be difficult. Laird had been correct, and with the mobilization it wasn't hard to find them.

"Hello there!" Hillier called, not knowing how to distinguish Colonial ranks.

"Are you the Canadians?" the marine asked.

"That's us. We were told you'd have positions for us."

"The sergeant's over there, talk to her about it." The Marine pointed to another noncom down the hall.

"Thanks." said Hillier. It took no time to make it down the corridor, it was only a short distance. "Sergeant?"

"Hadrian." came the reply. "Sergeant Hadrian. You're the Canadian's were expecting?"

"Affirmative," said Hillier. "I'm Captain Tom Hillier, and this is second-lieutenent Steve Ritchie."

"Okay, Captain, we've got a slight change in the mission." said Hadrian. "Reports indicate the centurion released some kind of biological weapon into the vents. We've shut those down. However, it's still in the middle of the contaminated zone. Our CMO hasn't identified the toxin yet, but it's almost certainly one from the first war."

Hillier shrugged. "First war? Not very helpful, our First World War was almost one-hundred fifty years ago. I have a feeling you're not dealing with mustard gas and chlorine fumes."

"Certainly not. Nasty little bug, apparently. Almost instantly fatal."

"Ah, damn..." Hillier sighed. "Back to the shuttle, everyone, we gotta get the hazmat gear out. Sergeant, do you want us to try and take this guy out?"

"If you can, please do."

Hillier took his hand off his rifle and gestured towards the hangar deck. "Okay boys, let's go."

As the canadian special forces started to head back towards their shuttle, Hillier took one look back at the Colonial marines. He could tell by looking at them that they'd had no break for a long time. The strain showed, and all of them looked tired somehow. How long that had been, only they knew.

_**Strikestar Spitfire**_

Lee Adama- off-duty at the moment- lay on the small couch in his quarters with a magazine over his eyes and the lights dimmed. He'd taken some isonal for his headache, but it was still bugging him.

The automated door buzzer went off, and he groaned. "Yeah, who is it?"

He heard the door open and someone walk in. "Look," Apollo said. "I'm not having a..." He snapped his mouth shut as he saw Admiral Greer in the doorway.

"Not having a what?" Greer said.

"Nothing, Admiral. Well, just a headache, but it's fine."

"I hope so." said Greer. "Admiral Adama just got back from Earth little more than an hour ago, I don't know if you've been informed yet."

Lee shook his head. "No, I've been off-duty."

Greer nodded. "Okay... Well if you didn't know Earth has just been surrounded by a Cylon fleet, and Adama had to evacuate both _Valkyrie_ and _Panthalassa,_ a terran battlestar. The trouble is he's taking it a bit hard, as you'd understand."

"So you want me to talk to him."

"Good guess. Tigh's a little busy right now, but you're the next best man for the job. The point is I can't have Adama holed up on _Valkyrie_ right now, I need him at his best especially now."

Lee scratched his head thoughtfully, running over the request. "I don't know what I could do, I mean he might let me in, but..." He shrugged. "What the hell, I'll try it."

"Good man, commander." said Greer, turning to the door. "I just hope it works, that's all. I'd see him myself, but in the state he seems to be in, you'd be better."

Lee nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

_**SSR, Earth**_

Lavochkin bolted upright as he heard the sound. "Tanks!" he bellowed. Grinning to himself, he jogged up the stairs of the ruined shop, bursting out onto the roof despite the gray drizzle.

"It's them!" he hissed. Then he shouted "Comm, get on the radio! Tell them our Army's here!"

Lavochkin ignored the next reply, and continued to look out across the city. Pulling out a pair of binoculars, he checked the incoming column. There were tanks alright, and yet...

"Something's wrong..." he muttered. "Bozhemoi!"

_They were under attack!_

It looked like a running battle from the distance. Ground-to-air missiles screamed away from the column while the strange round Cylon craft from earlier strafed the tanks again and again. An APC exploded right in front of a T-82 and swerved off the road. A missile then obliterated the Cylon raider.

"Comm! Get a hold of the AAA units, tell them to sight in!" Lavochkin shouted without taking his eyes off the battle. The army was definitely feeling the brunt of the air attack, under fire from the strange new raiders.

The lead units were now approaching the edge of the downtown core, approaching the rearguard of the paratroopers. Lavochkin could see from his position surface-to-air missiles, both handheld and launcher-based, being readied by paratroopers hidden in ruined buildings. Even from a distance he could see the soldiers tensing up...

On a signal, rockets roared from the buildings, plunging them into an almost fog-like cloud. The missiles quickly became too small to see, but the contrails stood out against the grey sky. They split up, each picking the nearest target. Several raiders erupted in flame as the missiles hit their mark.

"Da!" Lavochkin pumped his fist into the air. More missiles rose from the army column, obliterating more aircraft.

And then a very peculiar thing happened. As the Cylon vessel banked over the centre of town, automatic fire opened up from the Cylon held area. One of the Cylon (other Cylons?) ships exploded in mid-flight.

_Why were they firing on their own?_

Lavochkin became even more confused as he saw the surviving raiders open up on the Cylon-held area.

The other raiders seemed to be breaking off, as the motorized vehicles entered the city proper. The soldiers who saw this rose a cheer.

Lavochkin only stared as the Raiders retreated. And only one thought occurred to him.

"They were telling the truth..." he murmured.

_**Battlestar Galactica**_

Hillier shifted his isolation suit uncomfortably. "I never get over how I hate these things..." he muttered.

They were now deep in the afflicted area, however. The suit was the only thing keeping him alive. The good news was that a single centurion could only carry so much contaminant, and that it would dilute the further out it spread. Trouble was it seemed deadly enough the even a diluted strain would be fatal.

"Movement, dead ahead." said Ritchie.

"Understood." replied Hillier. "Spread out, you two, take point, the rest, cover."

Fanning out to both sides of the corridor, the team moved forward slowly.

Right on queue, a large metallic humanoid swung out from behind a corner, a captured colonial carbine in its hands. Instantly it was drawing bead on some of the team.

"Down!" Hillier roared. The flanking soldiers opened fire on the machine, automatic rifles bucking in their grip and plasma rounds arcing towards the Cylon. Unfortunately, even the Terran plasma rounds merely ricocheted off the armour plating.

"Grenades!" Ritchie called out. The centurion chose this moment to open fire, blanketing the corridor with automatic bursts.

Corporal Giles fell, his HAZMAT suit punctured by the wild firing. Everyone else ducked, trying to flatten themselves against the bulkheads.

"Let 'im have it!" Hillier shouted. "Firing one!"

A single grenade from Hillier's rifle shredded the centurion, scattering metal shrapnel all around the corridor. The canadian soldiers flattened on the ground, shielding themselves.

"Everyone alright?" Hillier asked. His attention was immediately taken by sergeant Sykes, writhing on the ground. A piece of shrapnel had penetrated his forearm, and the suit was breached. Hillier immediately opened a radio link. "CIC, this is Hillier. Your centurion's down, get the medics up here asap!"

Closing the radio link, he shouldered his rifle. "Okay, let's get out of here. Standard decon procedures, and we'll be in quarantine until they figure out what kind of crap this gas is." Hillier gestured with one hand and led the team back the way they'd come.

_**Richmond, Virginia**_

One of the first questions asked when a president is informed of a crisis is "Where is the nearest carrier?" This crisis had been the first to which the answer was "All under attack." General Trent had immediately recommended to evacuate the executive branch to Cheyenne Mountain. Then Edwards AFB had fallen under fire.

Warren's Nation Security Advisor, Brent Jenkins, had then recommended Philadelphia. Trent then stated flatly that small flying saucers had appeared over the city, and were engaged with air force units in the area. Shortly afterward more of the fighters were reported just outside the District of Columbia.

So President Warren and the executive staff were now crowded into a field command centre near Richmond, Virginia. And things were not good.

"We lost the _Sentinel_..." said Brigadier General Patton. "That makes five starships destroyed, and three left."

Warren was leaning against a tent post. "Okay, so you're pretty much saying we're getting slaughtered up there."

Patton grimaced. "They outnumber us and they have smaller fighter craft, all of which are armed. Once our ships get off their salvo, they've pretty much got the laser emplacements, and they were designed for missile interception, not swarms of fighters. Once the fighters flank them, they're beyond the line-of-sight for targeting."

Trent leaned over Patton's shoulder. "The first salvos destroyed one ship and critically wounded three more. They're just designed for a different type or warfare than we're equipped to handle."

Warren stood up and started pacing, massaging his forehead. "Just like Adama said, right? So we've got no free carriers, our starfleet is being torn to shreds, our satellites are being hunted down and communications are crap. Anything I missed?"

"Our military bases are being targeted first?"

Warren slammed a fist into the tent post, causing the entire structure to waver. "What about nuclear silos?"

"We've got underground Vega missile silos still online, as well as our Ohio II subs." said Trent. "Should I get Admiral Stearns up here?"

"No." said Warren. "Override that. I just want them launched."

No one said a word.

Warren saw their reaction. His reaction surprised everyone.

He burst out laughing.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I campaigned against missile defense from day one. This is a good way to get rid of the damn things..." He chuckled and paused to catch breath. "Launch. Launch them all. Get them out of the atmosphere and save the goddamned planet while we still can."

Trent exhaled and raised his eyebrows in disbelief and anxiousness. "You do realize that once we fire them off then everyone else will too? And without satellite comms there's nothing we can do about it?"

"I figured that would happen." Warren said. "Doesn't make much of a difference if we're all dead now, does it? Better to be shot like a sheep... I forget the saying." He grinned. "Point is, let's go down fighting, eh?"

Trent nodded. "Yes, Mr. President."

"Look on the bright side, General. Things just got easier. No more talking, just kill the bastards."

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

The radio had died three hours earlier. Tyrol was sitting in a corner, growing more and more uncomfortable as his muscles ached. The floor and wall were not comfortable at all.

"We going to stay in here any longer?" he called out.

"I hope so." Remus shrugged, sitting opposite Tyrol on the other side of the room. "It got boring since they stopped playing Won't Get Fooled Again." He put down his pistol and scratched his head. "I think it's safe to go out now, though."

Tyrol scrambled to his feet. "About time, too."

Remus, careful to hold the pistol loosely, rose to his feet himself. In his other hand, he carried what looked to Tyrol like a screwdriver.

It was, it turned out. Remus jammed the metal tip into the door and levered the lock. The heavy door started to swing open. Remus looked at the bent screwdriver and tossed it away. "I should carry one of those things." he said. "Useful."

"If I had a hammer..." Tyrol shot back.

"Ha ha. I think you're catching on, old chap." Remus said. "Now let's take a peek outside, shall we? My new Cylon homeworld? Just until we can get the other one back, of course."

Remus then paused, as if he remembered something. "Oh, hang on, gotta have a welcoming committee." He walked over to the FTL communicator and opened a channel. "Flagship, this is your... imperious leader. I'm in the city formally known as Ottawa, the NRC, and I'd like my entourage there, if you don't mind."

_"By your command."_

Remus shut down the link. "I like that. I thought that'd be something they could relate to, 'imperious leader'. It's original."

"You're mad..."

"Why thank you, Chief." Remus grinned. "You resemble that remark. Now let's go."

The building was strangely empty. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. They burst into the sunlight five minutes later, only Tyrol wasn't ready for what he saw.

The sunlight was filtered through smoke on the horizon, and was more red than it had been. Original Cylon skyraiders wailed overhead, beating off an assault by Canadian air force craft. The sounds of explosions could easily be heard.

Remus laughed. "They're back!" he shouted. "Ready for revenge after the First War!"

A noise behind Tyrol caught his attention. He turned to see four gold-plated centurions walk up.

"Ah!" Remus said. "My entourage. Since we got centurions I thought I should get praetorians. Nice touch, eh?" He turned to face the Cylon praetorians. "Enhanced centurions, really. Nothing fancy. I thought it'd be really cool to have some of those new centurions for my guard but these praetorians will do."

He turned to Tyrol. "Now, I have to find a capitol. Let's go,"

"_By your command."_

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

"Hello?" Lee murmured as he entered Adama's cabin.

"I'm busy, Commander. Not now."

"Dad..." Lee said. "I don't think you are."

Lee walked through the threshold and into the cabin itself. It was dark, with only two lamps providing light. Adama was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. "Is there something you'd like, commander?"

The door closed behind Lee. "I'm not here as Commander Adama."

Adama glanced over at him, the shadows lengthening. "Joe Greer sent you, didn't he?" He sighed. "He wants to make some strategy, or plans of some kind... Really?"

"Dad..."

"No." Adama said quietly. "Not this time. Where do we go from here? Nowhere..." He looked back up at the ceiling.

Lee looked around hastily, pulling up a chair. "What makes you say that? We're still intact, and we have a greater force than ever! We used to have one old battlestar, and we pulled through! We rescued the survivors off of New Caprica with half the crew on the surface! What's changed now?"

"What's plan B, then?" Adama said hoarsely. "Where do we go from here? We survive the Colonies, but we can head to Earth. We survive New Caprica, but we can head to Earth. We survive Earth... Where do we go? Where the _frak_ do we go now!?"

"We'll find somewhere. We'll find something."

Adama laughed, but choked and started coughing. "So the Cylons can find us again? Dammit, how much further have we got to run? To escape them once and for all? Can we? _Can we!?"_

Lee shook his head. "Not with that attitude we're can't. Dad, look at you, this isn't like you at all!"

"Hope, son. That's what I'm missing. The entire Cylon fleet in orbit around Earth, and what've we got? Ten ships? Including the Canadians. It's a losing battle, Commander."

"So what do we do then? Hide in here?" Lee shook his head in disbelief. "Why not come up with some alternate plan? Where do go? Where do we live?"

Adama didn't say a word, so Lee continued. "We don't even know the situation. All the Cylon fleet may not have jumped there. And Remus sounds like he's trying to screw over the other Cylons too, he'll have some go at the Cylon homeworld I bet."

Adama considered that. "The other Cylons..." He was silent for a few more minutes. "They'll tie up a huge portion of..." He bolted upright. "I need to see Joe Greer ASAP. He knows the new Cylon forces. If they keep enough Cylons busy, we may be able to blast Earth free."

"That's not what I was hoping for..." Lee said.

Adama ignored him. "There may be a chance yet. Fool's hope, probably. But it's better than rotting out here for another dozen years. We're going to take back Earth."

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

"You propose an alliance, then?" said General Levin, commander of the First Tank Army. He was sitting across from two Cylon humans, in a ruined cafe between the Russian- and Cylon-controlled portions of downtown.

"That's what we've been telling you all along!" the Cylon who called himself Cavil said.

General Levin scratched his head. "Really..." He shrugged. "You do realize that the reason my army is here is to blast you and retake this city?"

"That was before the current situation." Lavochkin, sitting to Levin's left, reminded him. "Remember, we don't even know what's happening outside of this city."

"Neither do we." said the other Cylon. "Our ships seem to have vanished without letting us know."

"And our comms are down too." Levin said. "We're well equipped for air attack, of course, we have plenty of SAMs set up now. As for air defense our air force is barely recognizable, thanks to-"

"Sir, now is not the time." Lavochkin said.

Levin gave out an exasperated sigh. 'Very well, Major. The question remains: what do we do?"

"Well I wouldn't trust them further than I could throw them." Lavochkin said, loud enough for the two to hear him.

"Which is not very far, I imagine." Cavil replied. "However I don't trust you either, and yet I seem to be sitting here, don't I?"

"I'll give him that much." Levin said.

Cavil looked like he was about to snap something in response to the third-person naming, but stopped himself.

"General, I don't think we've got very much to lose." said Lavochkin. "They've already shown weakness on their part, and we now know where they are based. We have the upper hand. If they put a nose out of joint, we flatten them."

Cavil shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, I'm afraid he's got a good point there. Without our supplies we're running low on pretty much everything. I don't want to be the first Cylon to regenerate from starving to death, we need food too."

"Well the last I heard things have gone to hell beyond our borders." Levin said. "The new guys are everywhere. Even the Yanks are getting the short end of the stick. I think we should hole up in here as long as we can. Because as far as I know, we may be the last legitimate fighting force on this continent.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20**_

_**Battlestar Agrippa**_

Greer glanced sideways at Adama, sitting across from him in his cabin. "This isn't what I had in mind when I sent Commander Adama in."

"If there's even a faint chance, we should take it." Adama replied. "There's nowhere else for us to go anyway, so why not?"

"Why not... Well, annihilation for one." Greer said sarcastically. "Now, you do have a point. We don't know that the whole Cylon fleet is in orbit of Earth. But does that mean there won't be enough there to pretty much ruin our day?"

"A few Raptor flights would answer that easily. Jump in and out, they won't know where we are. We have to try though, for their sake as much as ours."

Greer got to his feet and walked slowly around the room. "The recon's one thing, but we must be careful about taking any action. This is all we've got, we lose these ships we lose everything. But you haven't answered one question: how?"

"How?"

Greer nodded and resumed pacing. "We show up and attack the ships... Then what? We need something concrete that we can aim for. Fuzzy goals won't do us any good. We need to know what we're doing once we're there, and an exit strategy if things go to Hades."

"Remus is calling himself God of the Cylons now, right?" Adama pointed out. "But he's not really one. What if we captured him? Dead or alive, it would be a huge blow to the Cylons on the planet."

Greer snapped his fingers. "You're right! Take him out, and they won't know what to do. Well, maybe... There's always the risk of them going nuts upon losing their God. And that wouldn't be pleasant for us."

"But it's worth a shot. The problem is finding him."

"Chief Tyrol was with him at the time, and Remus seemed to consider him some kind of brother. He also mentioned your former XO..."

"Saul's not a Cylon." Adama snapped. "He's too old to be one, for instance. _And_ he's aged since I've met him. Does that sound like a Cylon to you?"

"What about Tyrol? Can you say the same for him? You've served with him for a long time..."

Adama sighed. "I seriously doubt Tyrol is a Cylon. He's probably just trying to frak with our heads, nothing more."

"If Tyrol can be one, then maybe so can Tigh."

"I won't act on a suspicion planted by a deranged Cylon pretending to be a god!"

"Best lead we've got." said Greer. "There's no way you'll find Remus without offering him something. He's got a whole frakkin' planet to hide on. And he doesn't exactly have a GPS tag anywhere on him."

Adama said nothing. Greer pressed on. "Bill, whether Saul is or is not a Cylon, Remus thinks he is. We've got to use him."

"And if it's a trap?"

"If it were a trap, one of us would be more logical don't you think?"

Adama grimaced. "I don't like it, but if it's our only option..."

"It is. Whether you like it or not Saul Tigh may be the only answer."

_**Richmond, Virginia**_

Tatiana Beria fumed. Quite simply, she was isolated from her country, now more than ever. The satellites were being blown up one by one over their heads, and communications on the surface were becoming more and more restricted to hard lines and radio. Given the world's dependency on satellites, this was more of a problem than it would have been a century before.

It was one particular place that Beria wanted to communicate, so she figured the best place to go would be the new American command centre (such as it was) in Richmond.

Air attacks had severed a few major highways, and marauding Cylon fighters made travel by day hazardous. Beria had considered an armoured car, but had dismissed it as too obvious. Stealth seemed preferable, as the Cylons seemed to have more control of American airspace than America herself. With their FTLs, they could appear and disappear from radar screens, making any interception difficult. They were vulnerable to American fighters, but the American planes were more often than not either out of position or on the ground when the Raiders appeared.

So Beria had opted instead for a black volvo station wagon, something less obtrusive yet solidly built. Traffic on the roads had decreased, but was not gone entirely. Only two raiders were spotted on the drive from Washington to Richmond, neither of which made any hostile action. Beria's choice of vehicle seemed to have protected them.

Once in Richmond, she simply had to follow the concentration of soldiers and equipment. This led her straight to the command tent in which President Warren now resided.

"And you picked a most inopportune moment to arrive..." said Warren.

"And why would that be?" Beria snapped. "The world's coming to pieces, I think every moment is inopportune according to you. Now, if you please, I would like to know how my country is. You have requisitioned most of the communication lines that still function, you are probably the only people in this country who could know."

"Moscow's gone, Kiev and Pskov are also under attack, as are Murmansk and Vladivostok. Happy now?"

"Your cavalier attitude shocks me, General." Beria said.

Warren grimaced. "Madame President, we're about launch a nuclear strike against the orbiting warships. We've pulled our remaining forces away from orbit."

"If you allow me to contact Russia, I can order another attack simultaneously." She paused for a second, but only a second, before continuing. "Our space station, in the Van Allen belt. It is armed with experimental high yield explosives."

General Trent stared in shock at her. "Mr. President, they had them all along."

"You are referring to antimatter warheads?" Warren asked Beria, ignoring his defense chief.

"Correct. I assume then that you possess them as well. Your space station, _Van Allen,_ is the likeliest probability."

Warren nodded, almost embarrassed. "Yes."

"Mr. President," Trent said, clearly agitated. "This is an intelligence leak of-" He was cut off when Beria, positively furious, turned and slapped him across the face. Warren motioned at the secret service guards in the shadows, as their weapons were now extended and aiming at the russian president.

"Americans!" Beria spat. "Have you no sense or perspective?" Composing herself, she stood erect. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, I did not imply all Americans."

"No problem." said Warren. "We're preparing to launch our own antimatter warheads now. As well as a full nuclear strike."

"Very well." said Beria. "I need a commlink."

Trent silently pointed towards a console, massaging his stinging cheek.

_**USS Nautilus, SSBN-854**_

"Proceeding at seven-zero-zero feet, speed, twelve knots."

Commander Richard Hackett nodded approvingly and began pacing the cramped control deck, being sure to stay out of the way.

The _Nautilus_ was one of the latest ballistic missile submarines of the _Wyoming_-class, slightly less massive than her predecessors, the _Ohio II._ _Nautilus_ was currently on a depth exercise, on a round trip from Groton to New London, most of which was submerged. So far she had spent three days submerged, and was finishing her fourth and final day before surfacing. Being nuclear powered she could theoretically stay submerged for months, and four days below the surface was no issue for the _Nautilus._

"Conn, sonar, surface contact!" came the voice of Archie Weir, the sonar operator.

Hackett suddenly stopped pacing. "A little more specific, please, whatcha got Archie?"

"It's tiny, sounds like an outboard motor, very weak... Correction, four contacts!"

"Conn, take us to periscope depth. Up scope."

Nuclear submarines operate differently from the old diesel boats of the World Wars. Instead of venting ballast all at once, they have their engines drive them to the surface, and then vent ballast to put them on surface. Once underwater, they function similar to an aircraft.

Hackett felt the deck incline as the nose of the submarine pointed to the surface for the first time in three and a half days. Soon the diving officer was calling out periscope depth, and Hackett put his eye to the viewfinder. In reality he was looking at a high-resolution digital screen, with the 'periscope' in fact being a mast with various digital sensors. The terminology stuck, though.

"American launches!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the bright orange rafts and small motorboats almost instantly. "Escape rafts!"

He quickly made up his mind. "Get a diver in the hatch, stand by to surface and pick up survivors. Diving control! Blow one!"

There was a low rumbling noise from amidships.

"Blow three, five, and seven!" he finished. The rumbling sound grew louder, and the submarine breached the surface, rising above the sea. "Stand by to pick up survivors!"

Moving at less than one knot in mercilessly calm seas, the _Nautilus_ moved closer to the flotilla of survivors. There were four orange life rafts and two three per raft, and four in each boat, there were twenty all together.

It took two hours to have all the survivors taken aboard. In one of the orange life-rafts was found the unconscious form of an officer wearing captain's stripes. He, along with seven other crewmen, were immediately taken to the sickbay.

Around the same time that the rescue missions started, Commander Hackett was approached by the puzzled seaman manning the comm system. "Skipper, I can't raise anyone."

"What do you mean? Is the satellite backed up or something?"

"No, sir, the satellite's simply not there."

"Not there, eh?" Hackett muttered calmly. "Okay, let's take a look."

He followed the crewman to the communications console and did a quick check. "Run a diagnostic?"

"Yes sir, everything checks out. The satellite is simply not there."

Hackett looked closer. He was right.

"I'll be damned..." he muttered. "Okey dokey, call up SUBLANT on the radio then. I want to know if there are any ships missing."

"Aye aye, skipper."

Hackett watched as he tried establishing contact. "Sir, I'm not getting anything. SUBLANT, COMLANFLT, Joint Chiefs... We're off the air."

"Radio mast fail to extend?"

"No sir, they're simply not there."

"Okay, continue monitoring those frequencies. I'm going down to sickbay, maybe some of the guys we picked up know something about this." Hackett turned and left the control room, proceeding down the corridor towards the ladder. "Down ladder, make a hole!" he called before jogging down the stairs. Officers and crewmen parted before him as he passed through the companionways.

In sickbay, he first looked at the highest ranking officer, evident by the eagle insignia on the collar of his sun-bleached shirt.

"Doc, how is he?" Hackett called over to the doctor, Hendrickson.

"Keep it down a bit, please, we've got some people sleeping here, most suffering from exposure." Hendrickson murmured. "Actually, he can tell you himself."

"Are you the skipper of this boat?" asked the officer.

"Yes, that's me, sir. Commander Hackett, USS _Nautilus."_

"Thank God, an American boat... My name is Bryson, skipper of the _Sioux._"

"Captain Bryson? I've heard of the _Sioux,_ she was a good ship. What happened?"

Bryson sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. "Attacked. We'd just lost radio and satellite contact beforehand, then they hit. Squadrons of these flying saucers, fired at us with air-to-ground missiles and autocannons. We lasted maybe ten minutes before they holed us, then we abandoned ship. I lost over three quarters of my crew, I only survived because one of the midshipmen pulled me out. Personally I think I should've gone down with the ship..."

"Lost radio contact, you say?"

"Aye, all contact was dead as a post, nobody was transmitting. Just a few shortwave radio calls, all microwave communication was dead."

"We've lost contact as well." Hackett said. "Have you made contact with any other surface ships?"

"No, we were detached from our battlegroup, heading back to the coast."

Hackett was interrupted as the intercom crackled. "_Skipper, we've got bogeys bearing in, intercept course! Aircraft, multiple contacts!"_

"Shit!" Hackett cursed. "Captain, if you'll excuse me!"

No need to debate the fact. Hackett knew what they were.

"Diving station, crash-dive! Emergency flood!" he shouted into the control room. "All hands, prepare for crash-dive!"

"Contacts closing, two minutes to intercept!"

Hackett gritted his teeth. A large sub like the _Nautilus_ took around three minutes to reach periscope depth from the surface.

"Acknowledged! Diving stations, flood queue! Helm, bowplanes down ten degrees! Engine room, secure from natural circulation and prepare for full power!"

There was a muffled roar as the forward ballast tanks opened to the sea and the water flowed in. The deck started to incline, the rate increasing as the bowplanes sliced into the surface of the sea.

"Time to intercept?" Hackett called.

"Radar offline for dive, sir! All masts retracted!"

Hackett nodded. The dive was proceeding well, ahead of schedule. There was a ring from the intercom, and the chief engineer reported full power available.

"Helm, ahead full! Get us under! Go to fifteen degrees on the planes!"

"Helm answering all ahead full! Fifteen degrees down aye!" The deck plunged down more quickly.

"Skipper, we're passing PD!"

"Continue diving! Take us to five-zero-zero feet!"

"Five-zero-zero aye. Diving."

The control room was tense as the rumbling hum of full power continued. No sounds of gunfire were heard, and Hackett assumed the worst over when they arrived at 500 feet. "Helm, all ahead one-half, engine room, rig for natural circulation." He sighed with relief.

There was silence in the control room, broken only by the decreasing hum of the reactor and main engines. Hackett was aware of the eyes of his XO, Commander Carolyn Deckard.

"XO, with me please." he said. She briskly followed him to his cabin as they both left the control deck.

_**Battlestar Valkyrie**_

Breakfast was the usual.

Colonel Naslund, skipper of the late starship _Activity,_ had been stuck on the _Valkyrie_ for over a week now. Originally intended to act as a sort of liaison, he now felt like a parasite, almost a non-qual on the Colonial vessel serving no useful purpose.

Baked potato slices, but no french fries? They had never discovered french fries? Naslund salivated at the thought, but with over half a dozen Cylon warships laying siege to Earth, french fries were probably the last thing anyone was thinking about there.

Fortunately hamburgers had been conceived of, and Naslund heartily attacked one of them. One of the few pleasures he still enjoyed. But since his ship was now so much wreckage, he had nowhere else to go.

It was a fascinating ship. Of that there was no doubt. But after seeing the same insides for several weeks he was growing tired of them. And the Cylon invasion of Earth wasn't helping matters.

"Mind if I join you?" said a voice tinged with a mild accent.

Naslund glanced up to see an officer with a maple leaf on his shoulder looking down at him. "Please do, I'll be glad to talk to another Earthling."

With a laugh, the canadian took his seat. "I feel the same way. Je m'appele Leonard Perrier, callsign Lemons, _Panthalassa_ CAG."

Naslund shook the offered hand. "Hell of nickname, pallie. Colonel Naslund, CO USS _Activity._" He sighed. "Or I was, until she got blown up."

Lemons' eyes widened. "THE _Activity?_ The mission to Tau Ceti?"

"One and only."

"Wow, I had not even been born when vous avez departé..."

Naslund blinked at the french, but guessed the meaning. "I may not look it, but I'm on the far side of fifty. And not one gray hair."

Lemons shrugged. "Oui, but you'll be the oldest Colonel in history."

Naslund nodded. "Yeah, you're right. So what're you doing out here? What's the _Panthalassa?"_

"Experimental spacecraft carrier, or as your friends put it, battlestar. Reverse engineered from the database of a crashed Viper recovered from northern Canada."

"And it's Canadian? Do any other countries have them?"

"Non, just Canada. The others are continuing to pursue vessels around the strike-first tactic. Alors, we escaped with the _Valkyrie_ when the Cylons showed up in orbit. I don't know what happened to the others."

"Sounds like things are pretty screwed up back home."

"Oui, things are tellement shitty." Lemons laughed at his own words. "It is not over yet though. We will fight back."

"We better."

_**Yaroslyl, SSR**_

Lavochkin took a look around the hall the Cylons had set up as their headquarters near the town centre. One or two holes had been blown in the roof by Russian artillery, debris littered and floor, and tables and chairs had hurriedly been organized. Lavochkin could see how close the Cylons had been to collapsing, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that they might not have been saved by the timely appearance of their brethren.

"Yes, we were close to having our clocks cleaned by you." said a Cavil, surveying the damage. "Does that make you feel any better, perhaps?"

"Not really, given the circumstances." Lavochkin became silent again.

Cavil grunted and sat down in one of the haphazard chairs beside the First Tank Army commander, General Levin. "So now what? I suppose asking 'how's life' is a bit redundant, seeing as how it might be ending in a bit."

"Is he always this pessimistic?" Lavochkin nodded to one of the two Eights in the room, who nodded in return.

"Glad to know who's on my side." Cavil responded. "So, instead, I'll ask this: What now?"

"First thing to do is to survive." said General Levin. "We've got supplies to hold out for a while, but he's right. We need some kind of objective."

After he finished speaking, one could almost hear cartoonish crickets chirping in the silence.

"Okay, then," the general continued, "What do we know about our situation?"

"Not a lot." said Cavil. "We know as much as you. We're pinned down in the city, they can come and go at will, they outnumber us, and have supply lines when we're pocketed."

"Are we pinned down?" asked Colonel Veslovsky, standing behind Lavochkin. "They haven't put down any troops, they just stage random air attacks. We could leave when we like, now that we have the ground support. So what's stopping us?"

"Getting caught out in the open wouldn't be as nice, not to mention not having the luxury of supply lines." said Levin. "We've got what's left in the city."

"He's got a point there." said Cavil. "That's been our problem all along, remember. Since bully boys showed up, we've had no resupply ships from above. You've been squeezing us dry."

"At least your soldiers don't need to eat as much." said Lavochkin.

"No, they don't."

"What's the situation like beyond here?" Veslovsky asked.

"Last I heard both sides of the Front were under attack," reported Levin, "What's left of the Air Force is being overwhelmed, and the modern Cylons packed up and left. Even if we got a message out, we'd probably still be on our own."

"They've got us beaten, no two ways about it." said Lavochkin, laughing. "I'd love to see how the yanks are holding up. I hope they're getting smashed as much as we are, the cowards."

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." said the second Eight.

"What's that?" Veslosky asked.

"When we were on Caprica, we'd completely flattened the entire planet's military. Yet there were still some survivors who continued to be a thorn in our sides the whole time we were there. We found that usually the most organized forces were the easiest to combat once we became stronger."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Forget the tanks, rockets, and stuff. Bring only what we need, hide in the woods, find our way back to centers of strength using maps and compasses."

"And if they find us, we're dead." said Levin. "Still, the plan is a plan, I'll take it under consideration. Any other ideas?" Again the room fell into silence.

"Okay, well no reason to keep you all here. I'll have my boys man the missile batteries. I'm ordering strict radio silence from now on. That's it."

Clearing his throat, he turned and walked out, Veslovsky right behind him. Cavil headed in the direction of the storeroom, likely for some food. Lavochkin shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave. He sidestepped quickly to avoid walking into the Eight who had proposed one of the plans.

"I think you might be right," said Lavochkin, when she looked at him.

"I think it's the only likely way." she responded, smiling slightly. "If we go quietly they may not find us. If we go in force we know they will definitely find us, and if we stay they know where we are." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We can hold out here for a while. Then what? We run out of missiles, bullets, or more importantly, food. Then we start dying. And that's if they don't send in ground troops, and that would make our stay a very unpleasant one. Worst-case scenario, they nuke the city and everyone in it."

"Would they do that?" Lavochkin suddenly realized how vulnerable they could be to that kind of attack and how likely it may be. Machines didn't need to fear radiation to the same extent humans did, they could function at much higher levels.

"No, no, they won't do that first." said the Eight, clearly sensing his trepidation. "We're safe, for now. It's when they come back that I'll be worried."

"Okay..." he sighed. "One thing I never figured out, what's your name?"

The Eight seemed a bit surprised. "My name?"

"Da, like what are you called? You can't _all_ be called Eight, you must have some kind of name."

"Most of us go by Eight, only a few Cylons choose to use names, and only one has ever been given a real one."

"So what do you do when someone cries out 'Eight?' How do they tell you all apart?"

Eight seemed a bit puzzled. "You know, we never figured that out ourselves... It just works."

"And what should I call you?"

"Eight is my desig-"

"No, no, _you._"

"Um... If you _really_ want some of us go by Sharon, that's the most common name."

"Alright then. Sharon. Hope to talk to you again sometime."

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "You'd _want_ to talk to me again? Most people seem to regard as mass murderers."

"I don't know, are you one? I've been in the army awhile, and I've learned not to typecast on first looks. Way I see it we're going to be working together for the forseeable future, and I don't want us to hate each other the whole time, it won't translate into an efficient working environment. So despite my feelings I'm going to be nice, got it?"

Sharon didn't move. "Got it. And no, I'm not front-line material. I'm what the Colonials refer to as an REMF."

Lavochkin laughed. "We have the same thing, scary."

"Rear-echelon mother-frakker?"

"Eh, no..." Lavochkin sighed. "Not exactly the same I guess. For all the similarities, I'll never get over how profanity can evolve so differently."

"Nice to know you're a linguist."

Lavochkin rolled his eyes. "Political science. I tried, okay? Got me to officer level fast enough." He split off and exited the building onto the street. "See you around."

Eight watched him go. "About frakkin' time I met a human who didn't call me toaster every second sentence," she muttered under her breath. But not with hostility.

_**Richmond, Virginia**_

Warren paced back and forth inside the mobile command centre. "General, are we online yet?"

"It's taking some time, sir. we've lost 60% of our satellites and losing more as we speak. Last report had the _Enterprise_ destroyed, spacedock is under heavy fire. They seem to be ignoring _Van Allen_ for now."

"Good to know." said Warren.

President Beria was occupying a chair at the briefing table in the next room, waiting for the commnications network to be reliably established. Re-routing everything to avoid as many satellites as possible was taking a while. General MacLean of the Air and Space Force had three communications zeppelins and two AWACS up covering the losses, with two more zeppelins expected to fill in. It would take five minutes for them to arrive on station, and Warren was getting anxious.

"Understood." Patton said, causing the tense Warren to jump slightly. He saw Patton speaking into a phone receiver. "Mr. President, the Zepps are in position. Networks established."

"Right." Warren said. "And have Florida contact _Van Allen,_ I want a simultaneous launch. Madam President!" he called out. "We're online!"

Beria was seen to leap from her seat, before bursting through the door. "I need a terminal."

"Right here, Madam President." Patton gestured. "We've gotten a hold on Pskov, that's all we can find."

"That's all you're going to get a hold of." Beria said. "We're not in such mint condition as you are." she added, adding in a glare. The connotation was obvious, as most Russians viewed the American withdrawal as cowardly.

She continued, "Give me a timeline. When do we launch?"

"Ten minutes from 4:00 Greenwich mean time."

"Understood." She began firing off rapid phrases of Russian which Warren couldn't follow.

"When are we launching, Mr. Trent?" Warren asked.

General Trent, on the far side of the bank of consoles, checked his watch. "The ten-minute cycle begins in five minutes."

"I've sent the message." said Beria. "We should be able to monitor it from here."

"Five minutes, people!" Patton ordered to the surrounding officers. "Stand by to initiate!"

"Getting confirmation signals."

"New York is online. California is online. Oregon is online."

"Incoming from Pskov, Black sea online. Ural Station, online."

"Montana, online. Texas, online."

"Station one, online."

"_Van Allen,_ online."

"All units coordinated." said Patton. "Sixty seconds to cycle."

"This may sound like a bad time, but how many antimatter warheads do you have?" asked Beria.

"Ten." said Warren. "That's all we've managed."

"Really? We only have eight."

"Nice to know we'll be giving them something to think about then." said Warren under his breath.

"Cycle has started, ten minutes to launch." reported Patton.

"Why the long cycle?" Beria asked. "You're capable of snapshots, retaliation, right?"

"We want to be absolutely instantaneous, not to mention the experimental nature of these warheads. I don't want one of them going off prematurely, if, say, we missed checking the safeties. You could be a lot more rough with a nuke, but if the magnetic fields in these warheads collapses, it will go off and destroy everything for thirty miles."

"I know about that. We have them too, remember." Beria pointed out.

"Five minutes."

Warren began rocking nervously on his feet. "I hope to God this works." he muttered.

"We will see."

_**USS Nautilus**_

"Up scope!" ordered Captain Hackett. "Try to establish contact with the continent again, Comm."

The affirmative came back, as Hackett peered through the scope. Everything was clear, but he wasn't going to take a chance and surface fully. He would run at periscope depth for now.

"Sir, you're not going to believe this! We've just intercepted verified American anti-matter release codes!"

Hackett snapped to alertness, slamming the periscope handles up. "Verify that!"

"Verified and confirmed sir! We're looking at five minutes to launch!"

"Let me see that..." he moved swiftly over to the plot table. "You can't be serious..."

"Think it's the damn russkies getting pissed at us for cutting out?"

"No, they'll just think these codes are gibberish." Hackett muttered. "No nuclear codes though. That's odd."

"So no action for us?"

"No. No action for us." Hackett muttered. "Damn good thing, too. I wouldn't want to touch these suckers off unless I had to. Let's just wait for the fireworks to start. Looks like the shit just hit the fan."

_**Richmond, Virginia**_

"Mr. President, we just launched the initial EMP." said Patton. "Five missiles, high orbit. They should coincide with the launch."

Warren nodded. The Cylons wouldn't intercept the missiles that were streaking away from them. But once their radar was blinded, they would be helpless. And with eight warheads per missile, they'd be blinded for a solid hour. Worse, if they weren't shielded. The next wave would then have a helpless target.

_**Ottawa, Canada**_

Inside a landed Raider, Remus listened to the Cylon comm traffic. "Your friends are up to something, bro." he said. Then he burst out laughing. "They're going nuclear! They must be!"

"What?" Tyrol hissed. "Are they _insane?_ That'll kill them _and_ us!"

"Oh, showing a little concern for me, are we? I never thought I'd see the day." Remus said histrionically. "But of course having to force your own family to accept you, that kinda sucks. I think we're working it out though, eh?"

Tyrol glared at him. "Can't you stop it?"

"Normally I'd jump at the opportunity, but they've adapted..." Remus continued. "It's a closed circuit, I can't get into it. All that's being transmitted are a bunch of codes, there's nothing to take control of."

"So all we can do is wait until we get blown to bits or start glowing."

Remus scratched his head and nodded. "Pretty much, yeah. So how about getting out of this dump?"

Remus motioned to one of the Cylon Praetorians, who began warming the Raider for takeoff. "I need a new capitol, Tyrol. Wanna go touring?"

"Not particularly." said Tyrol.

Suddenly the sky lit up, a huge fireball igniting silently on the horizon. Remus shielded his eyes from the glow, as did Tyrol. But Tyrol had studied his surroundings, and although shocked by the light in the sky, recovered quickly and began sprinting towards cover. There were some trees at the edge of the field Remus' Raider was parked in, on what had once been a schoolyard. He was already under cover by the time the glow started abating, and leaving Remus behind fast.

"Frak," Remus muttered, as he squinted through the artificial brightness. "Praetorians, can you track him?"

"No, my Lord," the lead one replied in a grating voice. "All sensors are down. Only optics are functioning."

"What?" Remus scrambled into the Raider. Sure enough, all non-shielded electronics were dead, and all sensors were filled with static. The Americans had launched high altitude nuclear weapons, produced an EMP, and blinded all his sensors for a good half hour at least. They were hiding something, and they had plenty of time to do it.

"Maybe they're as tough as the Russians after all," he muttered.

On cue, as soon as the warheads detonated high in the atmosphere, seven missiles burst out from various sites in the US, Russia, and in orbit. Both the so-far ignored russian space station and the American station _Van Allen_ launched missiles, three apiece, instantly vectoring in on the orbiting Cylon warships. The orbiting ships immediately tasked their launched fighters into a defense formation, attempting to intercept the nukes, as anti-missile batteries opened up on each basestar. Only three missiles got through the cover, obliterating two basestars in seconds. The experimental explosives shredded through the armour plating and vapourized the starships. The other basestars then realized the barrage coming at them from the surface of Earth, out of the scrambled blind spot created by the EMP moments before. But it was too late for them to do anything. Six basetars met their end, with two more damaged in the explosions. The only thing preventing the annihilation of the Cylon Fleet was the lack of coordination between the American and Russian missiles. Time and again, they targeted the same ship.

The Cylon Fleet was now reduced to seven basestars.

_**Richmond**_

"Direct hit!" Trent shouted. "Another down! They're dropping like flies! Didn't see it coming!"

Even the usually stoic Patton was punching the air. "Not so toothless now!"

"Hold on," said Warren. "We're not out of the woods yet. There's still a sizable strike force up there. What's more, if they're capable of it, they'll be hopping mad. We know those ships carry nukes. I want us to be ready for them. Arm all surface-to-air batteries, General." Warren gritted his teeth. "It's only just beginning."


End file.
